


Study Habits

by Durinsbride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Mini case fic, No Defined Top or Bottom, Profanity, Sexism (slight), Sexualized dialogue, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Switching, Wincest - Freeform, objectification of women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durinsbride/pseuds/Durinsbride
Summary: He knew everything about Dean; from his favorite get-it-done porn (girl on top, jiggling tits), music (Zeppelin, but he also listened to ABBA, which he would deny to his dying breath) food (burgers, burgers and more burgers), sleep position (stomach, face down in the pillow, hand on the knife/gun/weapon underneath) to sneezing sound (abrupt, cut off blast). So in the end, there was nothing he didn’t know about Dean.Except, apparently, that his big brother was in love with him.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 134
Kudos: 134





	1. Study Habits

**Author's Note:**

> The explicit and celebratory sex will take place in the last chapter. I won't drag this out forever, please be assured.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit and celebratory sex will take place in the last chapter

**_“A hug is a smile with arms, a laugh with a stronger grip.”  
― Terri Guillemets  
_**

**_“Yeah, I've been following you around my entire life! I mean, I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world.” ― Sam Winchester_**

In the end, it took Sam quite a while to figure it out.

For an Ivy League Scholar, perfect SAT’s, the whole nine, it was embarrassing to admit that he’d missed the clues, all the obvious tells that were staring him in the face. He knew his big brother, okay? Better than he knew anyone. He’d told him that once, back when Gordon was fucking with them, and Dean didn’t even know the half of it.

‘Cause his “egghead” little brother, the scholar? His first _true_ study had been Dean. 

Dean, Dean and nothing _but_ Dean from the moment he opened his eyes until the hour he lay his head next to his brother’s on their shared motel bed. And the kicker? He was still Sam’s one true academic pursuit. The rest of his wide-ranging knowledge and mid-level languages competency was trivia, knowledge tucked away deep in his “big brain” in the vital mission to Keep Dean Alive, something he’d been doing since he could read, just about. Because Sam had made himself a promise long ago; if his father was gonna take Dean away from him and constantly risk Dean’s life fighting monsters, then Sam was gonna know everything about _killing_ those monsters from the get go. Everything he needed to know to keep Dean safe, whole, and coming back home. 

So he was an expert in Dean Winchester. 

He knew everything about Dean; from his favorite get-it-done porn (girl on top, jiggling tits), music (Zeppelin, but he also listened to ABBA, which he would deny to his dying breath) food (burgers, burgers and more burgers), sleep position (stomach, face down in the pillow, hand on the knife/gun/weapon underneath) to sneezing sound (abrupt, cut off blast). So in the end, there was nothing he didn’t know about Dean.

Except, apparently, that his big brother was in love with him.

_That_ set him back a bit, when he’d first cottoned on and got a clue. Took a whole week of mundane tasks and solitary endeavors to wrap his “giant” brain around this particular revelation, because _hoo-boy_.

Jogging, laundry, cleaning his Taurus, long hot showers, mincing peppers in the kitchen.

Not matter what he did to distract himself, it didn’t stop all of his ruminating and wool-gathering on his one life-long subject of study, and in the end, he kept returning to the same bright, startling truth:

Dean.

My brother.

**Dean.**

Is in love.

With _me_.

And it wasn’t your garden variety sibling type love either (not that love of any kind was typical, Sam mused. How could it be?). But it wasn’t some abstract ideal either: platonic, selfless, unconditional…noble. Nope. No siree. Because he was pretty sure that Dean was in LOVE love, as in the Catherine/Heathcliff variety. The, I’ll-Dig-Up-Your-Corpse-Because-I-Can’t-Live-Without-You, kind.

For him.

 _Sam_.

Samuel.

He sat down because his legs felt shaky, trying, again, to come to terms with this revelation. Putting his hand to his head, running his fingers through his long hair, (which Dean claimed to hate, but maybe he secretly _didn’t_ , which, what the fuck) he closed his eyes—

Sam took a deep breath to steady himself. This kind of thing had been happening a lot lately, especially during this unusual lull in cases. More time hanging out at the bunker like this led to more of these I-need-to-sit-down moments. And now, seated at the war room table, with nothing but quiet, dusty books, and art deco décor all about him, such a conclusion seemed beyond absurd. Because, come on! Dean—in love with me. _Riiiight_!

He just couldn’t square it. Maybe he was wrong on this score, as he was about so many things (and people). Was seeing too much in nothing. It’s not like he had irrefutable evidence. Cold hard facts. Established lore. This wasn’t like taking out a spirit, after all. A little salt and burn’ll do ya! No. This was the amorphous, intangible realm of feelings. Something he and Dean had very little skill in dealing with, simply because they both pretended they never had them. And it was super egotistical, really, to suddenly conclude that your big brother was butt-crazy in love with you.

Wasn’t it?

Because Dean loved him, sure, but he didn’t want to _marry_ Sam. It sure as hell wasn’t romantic love, of all things. It’s not like Dean wanted to…to fuck him, right? It wasn’t quite like that…

Right?

Still—

There were those long, lingering glances from bright green eyes, constantly watching him, following his every movement. Longing-like glances. Like Sam was the sun and Dean was some helpless planet caught in his gravitational pull—

Sam shook his head in a vain effort to dispel his growing unease. Jesus fuck, this speculation shit was getting to him if he was starting to think like a paperback romance, and to equate himself to a Bronte heroine. He couldn’t live with this uncertainty, this back-and-forth debate in his head. He had to have some definite answer to this question, so he could stop mentally circling like this, and decide what the fuck he was going to DO about it.

Because that was the crux. What to _do_ about it.

Sam heaved a sigh. There was the standard Winchester Method, of course, which was denial. Actually the twin method: denial and repression. Worked like a charm after Jess. After Ruby. After a lot of similar mistakes— 

(His time in hell—now that was different. He could not, and would _not_ , open himself to full thought and confrontation on that score. Not yet, anyway.)

But in all other matters as Sam grew older he found that he wanted that less and less. He was tired of pushing it all down and ignoring it. He felt stuffed to the gills with shit he’d never properly let go of. This whole Fuck-Dean’s-In-Love-With-Me thing was some mental freak out brought on by too many sleepless nights and too little _actual_ sex to speak of, too much of the usual repression and denial, to start imagining that his brother was in love with him for fuck’s sake.

Enough. Sam stood and clapped his hands to his thighs in resolution. Time to settle this once and for all. He was a rational, empirical type of person that preferred concretes to what-ifs. That meant that if he were to have any peace he would have to settle this definitively instead of hiding himself away in the bunker and numbing himself with repetitive sensate activities. If he needed answers, then it required research, and field testing.

He felt better now that he had decided on a course of action. The next step was a plan. A solid plan before he started. He grabbed a notebook and a pen from a glossy walnut end table and sat down once more to write it all out. He blew out a breath and stared into the middle distance, gathering his thoughts. A moment later, he bent forward and started to write in his clear, strong hand:

• Make a prediction  
• set up the lab conditions  
• test under controlled variables

Purpose: note if empirical evidence will bear out.

He paused. But how? So he’d come to the conclusion that (maybe) Dean had…feelings for him. Should he just assume/predict that Dean was willing to face the truth and walk right up to him and go, _hey jerk, do you have like, the hots for me, or something? Wanna make out?_

Jesus. Now he was talking like a horny adolescent in his own mind. Of course he wouldn’t word it like _that_ —this wasn’t a joke. And it wasn’t about sex, anyway.

Right?

Hmm. Maybe:

_Dean, hey. Could I talk to you for a second? There’s something important about our relationship I really think that you and I should address--_

_Why, what’s up, Samantha? Need to talk about your "feelings” again?_

(All right, so Dean wasn’t an adolescent either, but he sure talked like one when he felt like it, and he was allergic to discussions about feelings, so it wasn’t that far from the mark. If Sam tried to start a conversation like that he’d get what was coming to him.)

How about:

****

___Dean. I need to talk to you. It’s important._

_Yeah? So, shoot. Got a new case?_

_No, this isn’t about a case. This is about…us._

_Oh god, why does this sound like the opening to an episode of Dr, Phil?_

Yeah, no. Conversation wasn’t the way to go. Talking with Dean was like sparring and just as exhausting. Plus Dean wasn’t stupid. He was actually very intelligent, despite how he thought of himself, and he could accurately read and size up any situation. He would see Sam coming a mile away with some sort of “feelings” talk and be ready with all deflectors at full strength. His reflexes were astonishing, physically and mentally. So, words were not the way to begin. Nope.

Sam dropped his pen to the page and jotted down a word:

_Action_

It was action that spoke to Dean the most. And it was the best way to slip below his radar with this type of thing. At least, in theory.

Sam blew out another breath and sat back in his chair, spinning his pen between his fingers. Okay, so, action…but what kind of action did this experiment warrant? It would have to be subtle, because really, nothing got past Dean.

In a way, this was like a hunting job. Only more scientific and less…bloody. He knew his quarry pretty well. To the letter, in fact. It was the intent, the approach and the outcome that mattered.

So, his quarry, Dean Winchester…

He rocked back in his chair and pictured his big brother in his mind. It was easy: he’d long since memorized every detail of Dean’s stunning, breath-stealing beauty. Hard as he tried to be objective in this matter, he just couldn’t get past that first, implacable truth. Dean was beautiful. He’d never seen anyone, anything, as perfect as Dean his whole life. That was the absolute truth.

Sam wasn’t aware that he heaved yet another sigh, one softer and deeper than those prior, nor that his expression grew distant and unfocused, gently awestruck as he fell deeper into contemplation.

Dean was…magnetic. Even when he was kid, long before the full promise of his looks came to the fore, Sam was aware of the way Dean affected other people. How he drew them in, helpless. How they softened their tone and their eyes would widen, a wondrous sort of smile lifting the corners of their mouth. Male or female, it didn’t matter, Dean just had that effect on people. Once they caught sight of him it was like there was no one else in the room.

And it had only gotten worse as Dean grew older. When Dean hit adolescence and he started to grow taller, a little wider in the shoulders, girls would stare and giggle feverishly when he walked by. That’s when all the hungry, greedy looks started. The _dirty_ looks. Woman twice his age staring at his smiling mouth, his long lashes, as if entranced. Blushing when he smiled that crooked smile, especially when he wanted another slice of pie, flirting like breathing, making it look _so_ easy. Easy as pie.

And Sam had noticed men, too, checking Dean out like he was a steak dinner in jeans and sneakers. In high school there were plenty, once Sam started to look for it; boys that stood too close to him, like they needed to be even _closer_ , looking, always _looking_ at that perfect, wry mouth. Watching him form words like he was miracle on bowlegs.

God, he’d _hated_ that. Pissed him off no end when girls (or boys) looked at his brother that way, as he tagged along completely forgotten in Dean’s golden wake. But it wasn’t being ignored that pissed him off so much as they _way_ they looked at him, like they wanted him so, _so_ bad. 

Well, boo fucking hoo.

 _“Fuck off,”_ Sam said softly, unaware he’d spoken aloud, or so ardently. Still lost in the past.

_That’s my brother, you fuckers. Stop looking at him like that. Like he’s cake and ice cream and sex and summer days. He’s a **hero**. He saves **lives**. You want to…to kiss him, touch him…fuck him, and you don’t know **jack** about him._

His fingers tightened their grip on his pen, his knuckles whitening as the plastic casing stared to creak under his fingers. It seemed like everyone had wanted Dean.

He’d never known that same ease. A smile and a mischievous wink to get his way with girls (or boys), never known that attention. But he’d never truly craved it, either, not from any quarter. Back then all he wanted was…was _Dean_. No one else, or anyone else’s lust, or need, or attention. Just… _Dean_. 

To himself.

He sat upright, brows raising. A little startled at the force of the feeling that moved through him at this thought, because it was suddenly so clearly, hugely obvious:

All he had ever wanted, or needed, for the whole of his life, was his brother. The only person he had ever truly loved, wholly and completely and unceasingly, was _Dean_.

_Fuck._

He hadn’t thought about it much before, but now that he did he realized that he was happy, happier than he’d ever been, in fact. Living here in the bunker with his brother, finding cases, working the field, and driving all over the country with his annoying, sarcastic, ridiculous, _amazing_ big brother.

_Saving people, hunting things, the family business._

There was nothing else he wanted, or needed. It was perfect when it was just Dean, a case, even the fucking Impala.

That and something to kill...

(He cringed a bit at that last part, but he had to admit that killing things, especially evil things, came with its own level of satisfaction.)

God, it was all so _clear_ now. His brother. His frustrating, immature, leather clad and metal-loving bowlegged big brother, was the love of his life.

Sam sat all the way back now, staring at the ceiling.

_Holy shit._

Maybe this wasn’t just a one-sided deal. Maybe it went both ways. Maybe it was even…romantic.

Sam shook his head in automatic denial, but after a moment he just let himself go there, let himself picture something as sappy as candlelit dinners with Dean, walking on a beach hand and hand under the moonlight—

And he let out a sharp bark of laughter at the absurdity of it. There just wasn’t any way that their feelings for each other had taken a turn down that road, because the thought of snuggling with Dean by the fireside was enough to start him snorting with laughter. He felt such great relief when he started to think that he had gotten this all wrong. _Romantic!_ Sam grinned wide. Sure, like one night after watching a movie and snuggling, he’d carry Dean to his bed, bridal style (and wouldn’t he just love _that_ , Mister Macho) and throw him down on the sheets, tell Dean he was the most gorgeous man he’d ever seen and that he was going to make love to him like he’d never been made love to before, ripping off his shirt like Fabio, or something—

But the smile that curved his mouth started to wobble a bit when he pictured his brother doing the same, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off his shoulders, golden skin looking smooth and unblemished in the low light, the wide breadth of his shoulders slowly revealed as he let the fabric fall whisper soft to the floor.

His mouth went dry, and he swallowed at the sudden lump in his throat.

Those long, long lashes would lift and his bright, gold-green eyes would meet his, sincere, warm, seeking. Always looking for his—

_Sammy…_

He would say, low and quiet, and there would be so much emotion in that one, beloved word. His favorite. He wanted to hear it every day. Till the day he died. Till he drew his last breath—

_Sammy…_

That perfect mouth. Lips pillow soft. Like velvet to kiss.

_Sammy…_

And god, he would kiss with abandon, like all he ever wanted to taste again was his—

“Sammy! Yo! Anybody home?”

Sam snapped upright and the legs of his chair hit the floor with a jarring thud that rattled his teeth. He blinked his eyes several times, trying to process the sight before him: Dean standing at the corner of the war room table, not shirtless and warm and close but clad in the usual flannel and denim, eyebrow cocked in question, white apron tied about his trim waist.

“Man, you were like, in another world dude. Called your name about six times!”

“What?” he replied stupidly, wondering why his face was so hot and he felt like he’d just run a couple of miles at a fast clip. Wondering why he was here in the war room instead of in his bedroom, and why, oh god, he had a semi in his pants.

His face colored further and he bent forward and crossed his arms to hide his predicament. “What is it?” he asked, a bit too sharply, but he still felt out of depth here. “What do you want?”

Dean held up a hand in a placating gesture.

“Woah, big guy. Take it easy.” He looked over the table and frowned when he saw just a pen and a notebook in front of Sam. “I didn’t mean to interrupt some of your…think time, or whatever the hell you were doing. I just came to ask you if you were hungry. I made lunch. But I can go away, if you want, let you do your… _research_ …”

Dean said that the way he always did, as if Sam had some weird study kink, or something, like he liked to jack it to books and knowledge instead of girls and tits.

“No…I wasn’t…” He wound to a stop, wetting his lips and swallowing to moisten his desert-dry throat. “Nothing.”

“Okay, Einstein, how abou—”

But before Dean could finish whatever he was about to say, Sam stood up abruptly from the table and tore the sheet of paper from the notebook. Crumpling it into a ball, he shoved the offending paper in his pocket.

“I’m going for a run,” he announced, before turning and bolting from the room, moving so fast he was like a giant blur, barely sparing his brother a glance.

“Hey! Wait, don’t you want—”

A door slammed somewhere in the distance.

“Something to eat,” Dean finished to an empty room, frowning.

What the hell was that about?

Shrugging, figuring he’d get to the bottom of it sooner or later. (Sam was giant girl and loved to brood all the time, though he would deny that accusation to his dying breath). Dean knew how to wheedle it out of him. Samantha was always angsting about something. Dying trees, climate change, the lack of organic apples. Dean rolled his eyes. No skin off is his bac—

A soft crunch underfoot and the slight resistance of something under his shoe gave him pause. He stopped and looked down at his boot, frowning when he saw a crumpled piece of paper trapped beneath. Paper. _The_ paper. Sammy’s sacred paper for his thought session, or whatever, probably.

Dean bent and picked it up, debating for a moment. He should just throw it out, right, because it probably wasn’t important if Sam tore it up.

Tore it up before he shoved it (or tried to) into his pocket, however.

Glancing around, just to be sure he was alone and no Sasquatch baby brothers were lurking in the shadows to catch him in the act, Dean carefully peeled the paper apart and read the contents.

What? Frowning, he scanned it again. What’s this shit?

Just a bulleted list for a science experiment, or something. Nothing dirty, or embarrassing, or anything. Dean smirked. It figured. Maybe Sammy really did have some sort of research kink and this was just his way of getting it up beforehand. Instead of tits and pussy, he had the scientific method. You know, to get the blood going.

No matter, just another thing to annoy him with, when he got the chance.

Chuckling, Dean walked back to the kitchen, looking forward to his ham sandwich and potato chips. He couldn’t wait to tease Sam about this latest oddity, whenever he got back from his “run.”


	2. After a damn good sandwich...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somethin’ was going on with Sammy.
> 
> He’d glanced over at the little ball of crumpled paper on the table and frowned when he saw it, thinking over the events of that afternoon. He’d come into the war room to announce that he’d made some lunch only to find his little brother slung low in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling with this intense, faraway look on his face, like he was caught in some porn-y daydream. Which. Har _har_. Dean knew better, because this was Sam, after all. And Sam didn’t do horny. Not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in an undefined time during the bunker years, but certainly before the latter seasons, before Mary, etc.

Later, after a damn good sandwich, Dean came to a sudden conclusion:

Somethin' was going on with Sammy.

He glanced over at the little ball of crumpled paper on the table and frowned when he saw it, thinking over the events of that afternoon. He’d come into the war room to announce that he’d made lunch only to find his little brother slung low in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling with this intense, faraway look on his face, like he was caught in some porn-y daydream. Which. Har _har._ Dean knew better, because this was _Sam_ , after all. And Sam didn’t _do_ horny. Not really.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something sexual had been going on by the way he was breathing all heavy and flushed pink on his neck and chest (the small bit that Dean could see under the open collar of his shirt, that is. Cause it wasn’t like he was in the habit of _looking_ at his little brother’s chest or anything.) That meant that whatever Sam had been thinking about was just getting _real_ good when Dean interrupted him. And Dean almost felt sorry for him, because when a guy wanted to jack it, even if it was just to vanilla shit going on in his head, he wasn’t one to stand in the way between a man and his jollies. He’d even offer up some pointers, seeing as his brother wasn't as....experienced at these matters as he was.

You could even say that he was, wait for it, an old _hand_ at it.

Snorting with mirth at his joke, Dean took a sip of beer and contemplated what had happened next.

Sam had shot up like someone lit a fire under his ass and just about hightailed it out of there before Dean could say boo. Skipping lunch (which, unfortunately, was something Sam did _a lot_ ) to disappear somewhere.

Dean glanced at the kitchen clock. To disappear somewhere for the last two hours, in fact. Because he was pretty sure Sam wasn’t back yet. He had this weird Sammy-sense that was bang on the nose when it came to sensing and/or locating his little brother. So the bunker, while always quiet, was even quiet _er_ , and empty-feeling besides, so Dean knew his brother wasn’t back yet.

And speaking of quiet—Sam was, lately. Like, _a lot_. Not that he ever said much. The kid was more of an introvert, always had been. Always thinkin’ and thinkin’. And he kept it locked up unless he was pissed at Dean, which was _a lot_ , actually, ‘cause if there was anything Dean was good at (besides pretty much everything) it was annoying his baby brother all to hell, so—

No, Sam wasn’t quiet, really. He was more like... _still._

STILL still, like there was so much going on inside of him that his body just locked up tight to keep it all from spilling out. Classic Sammy Angst, because he was doing all the usual things he did when he got like this:

Running, check.

Cleaning, check.

Resting Pissed Face, check.

Acting high and mighty, check—

But, ya know, Sammy always acted like that. (And _act_ was the operative word, because it was a smoke screen for the way he _really_ thought about himself.) He'd acted that way ever since he was a little snot following his big brother around everywhere. Like he was a mini monk in training or something. The fucking Sammy Lama.

Snorting to himself at his joke, (which was fucking fantastic, thank you) Dean had to admit that it wasn’t conceit on Sammy’s part, because while someone else might think that Sam was stuck up, full of himself, Dean knew the truth. Sam had the opposite of conceit, ya see? It was more like the inverse of ego, a black hole of self-doubt and worthlessness. See, Sam actually thought that he was all _bad_ somehow. Rotten, sick, all twisted together with evil running through his veins (or some shit) because he knew about the demon blood fed to him as a baby. Had that whole…addiction to it.

(And Dean knew that he hadn’t handled that particularly well. Not by a long shot. He'd apologized, in his way, but he really needed to APOLOGIZE apologize for that, with actual _words,_ because, ya know, he never _properly_ had. It was just...hard.)

So inflated ego and Sam? Not likely. Because he was an expert in Sam Winchester, and knew _everything_ about his baby brother:

Favorite food? Green.

Favorite pastime? Two, actually. Brooding and Hair Care.

Favorite porn?

…?

Well, almost everything.

But now there was this present Sammy Conundrum to puzzle out. Like, for instance, the kid hadn’t gotten any action in nearly four months. Four _months_ , good god. Sam gave a new definition to blue balls. How anyone could go without sex in so long was beyond his mother-fucking ken, ya know? Boggled the mind.

Sitting back, slowly sipping his beer (which was getting warm, dammit) he was forced to wonder if Sam ever felt horny. Like, just needed some skin slidin’ and slappin’ on skin. Because who wouldn’t want a piece of his little brother? Come on, the man was a giant sapling of lean muscle topped with all that girly, chestnut hair. Which was _too_ long, ya know, but girls loved that shit. Loved to bury their fingers in all that rich softness.

(And Dean only knew it was (sinfully) soft because he’d brushed it aside a few times checking Sammy for head wounds. Not because he _noticed_ those kinds of things about his baby brother, come on.)

So, you know, Sam’s hair was like puppy fur under his fingers. Girls loved that shit, and all he had to do to get some pussy was light up that dimpled smile and flash it at some chick and she’d practically break a leg falling into bed with him. Kid didn’t have to work for it, for fuck’s sake. Not with those long legs and all that lean muscle.

Or those soulful, slanted eyes.

That handsome face.

(Not as handsome as his _own_ , of course, but that was just the crazy distribution of genes, ya know?)

And Dean had always been aware of his little brother’s effect on people. How they just about broke open and trusted him with all their secrets and sins right from the get go because of all the sympathy in those ever-changing eyes. (What color were they, actually? Gold? Green? Blue? All three?)

He was more than aware of how the women they encountered wanted to shelter under those broad shoulders and bury themselves in Sam's gargantuan body for days. Or how they always broke a case when he flashed that puppy face at a witness or victim. His, Don’t-Worry-I’ll-Protect-You-Or-Die-Trying, face. The one that Dean used to think was only for _him_ but seemed to be broadcast to anybody these days.

Not that he was like, _jealous_ of that, or some shit.

It was just that Sam seemed to love everybody like they were family, and that stung like a bitch (he had to admit) because the only family they had ever had was each other. Sam and Dean. Dean and Sam. Dos Hermanos. The two of them against the world. They were heroes, man. A team.

He could remember when it had mattered just as much to Sam, or at least seemed to. Back when he was a little kid, when those keen, sharp eyes followed him everywhere, hung on his every word, took it all in like whatever Dean said was the wisdom of the ages.

_You’re so smart, Dean—_

_Stop making me laugh! My stomach hurts!_

_Can we read about King Arthur and the knights again? I like the way you do the voices._

And if wasn’t that childish devotion, sometimes it was just need. The need for comfort and reassurance. Like that one time, brushing their teeth before bed, Sammy was looking at himself in the mirror, flexing his wiry (though still puny) muscles and frowning like he was deficient or something. So Dean had put on his big brother pants to nip that shit in the bud. (God knew Sammy was convinced there was something wrong with him and he couldn't stand that.)

_What’s that face for, huh Sammy? You’ve got some muscle there. Not a lot right now but you know what? You're gonna get more when you're older._

He chuckled, smirking.

_When you get older dude, I can guarantee the girls are gonna dig you, Sammy. Cause you’re a Winchester. If there's one thing the Winchester men are good at, besides hunting, it's bagging girls—_

Sam pulled a face, the first of his many "practice" bitch faces back in the day, because he wouldn't _truly_ master them until he was a grown man.

_I don’t care about girls, Dean._

(This was when Sammy was _really_ young, see, and hadn’t discovered his cock yet, how much fun it was to have one, or what to do with it—

_I want to be strong, like you and Dad. Strong enough to help with a hunt._

_What do you mean, Sammy? You help with hunts all the time. Me and Dad suit up and you hit the boo—_

_Not research, Dean. **Hunting**. Like you. Like Dad. I’m tired of being left behind. I want to go with you. Dad doesn’t care if you get hurt. If you…d-die. But I DO—_

Kid looked like he was ready to start the waterworks, because he could swear he saw some tears just at the edge of each eye. Dean remembered reaching over and tugging his brother to him, tucking his (soft) hair under his chin.

 _Hey—come on, don’t say that. Dad cares. He cares a lot. About you._ Pause. _About me._

(I guess...)

After an eternity, where he seemed to be considering the truth of Dean's claims, Sam had finally nodded, still sniffling, and buried his face further into Dean’s shirt, like he wanted to fuse with him. Dean rocked him back and forth a bit, and then kissed his forehead.

(Back then they did a lot of sappy stuff like that. It was different, you know? They were just boys.)

When Sam spoke next, his voice was hoarse, watery, and fucking depressed. _I can’t lose you, Dean._

Dean snorted and hugged Sam closer. _Hey, come on, Sammy. You’ve got me. You’ll always have me._

But after a time he didn’t seem to care about Dean so much anymore. Kept talking about school, and soccer, and girls, and math tests, and grades, and “normal.”

Normal, normal, and fucking normal.

_It’s called homecoming, Dean. It's what **normal** people do. And I would like to go on an actual date._

Yeah, with that ditzy redhead (Rebecca, Ronni, or whatever) that didn’t know anything about Sam other than he was tall, and had those awesome dimples, and was smart enough to run circles around a nobody like him?

 _A **date**? That’s what this conniption fit is about? Dad asks you for a favor and you get into it over a **date**? You can get a date any time you want, Sammy._ (If he would just get his head out of his ass and _try_ , that is). _We've got more important things to worry about than some stupid school dance, okay? Like that shifter Dad's tracking._

Sam sneered. _Spirits. Revenants. Shifters. Do you know that is ALL we ever talk about? Fucking monsters and ghosts. And all I ever seem fit to do around here is crack a damn book. Like you and Dad can’t read—_

Dean felt every muscle in his body stiffen in offense.

He just didn’t get this sudden 180 Sammy was pulling. It seemed like only yesterday Sam would rush to him as soon as he came through the door to check him over for wounds because “Dad doesn't care,” and Dean would grumble and protest as a matter of routine before he would begrudgingly submit to Sam’s demands.

Then he would sit on a ratty motel mattress with Sam standing between his legs while he ran his hands over Dean’s back and chest and ribs, all over, really, looking for cuts or bruises. Tutting like a fucking mother hen over nothing. 

_I’m fine, Sammy._

_No you’re not._ (Sounded like he was almost crying.) _Now sit STILL._

It just didn’t track that his devoted little brother, who used to look up to _him_ was now this (suddenly) tall, brooding young man (that HE had to look up to, fucking giant) standing in front of him pitching a fit over a stupid school dance when there were _lives_ at stake.

Dean sat back and put his beer down on the table, having lost his interest in drinking any more of it, because it sat like lukewarm piss in his mouth.

Was _that_ what this was? The silence, the stillness, the brooding? Just another attack of the I-Want-To-Be-Normal angst? 

They hadn’t been working a case for a while, after all. That gave a guy time to think, especially when he as was prone to overthink as Sam was. It was unusually slow at the moment hunt-wise, and Dean had enjoyed the off time so much he hadn’t pressed for more work. He thought it would be nice to give Sam (and himself) some time off to relax. He’d sure been enjoying it; cooking stuff, watching _Ride or Die._ Listening to music and giving Baby a thorough detail. He thought Sam had been doing the same. Chillin' out. Relaxing. Dean smirked. Maybe even takin' that stick out of his ass.

But his smile faded as he glanced down at the crumpled paper on the table next to his empty plate, (not even a crumb left on its shiny surface) and found himself reaching for the slip of paper Sam had been writing on when Dean interrupted him during his…"research" session, or whatever. The paper he’d been so keen to tear off the pad and try to shove in his pocket so Dean wouldn’t see it. Fat lot of good _that_ did...

He unfolded it and scanned the contents again. Was this Sam’s way of preparing to break up their partnership or something? Was all this angst because Sammy was thinking about getting back to some kind of “normal” like Stanford, and instead of just flat out leaving he was actually trying to break it to him easy?

Dean read the simple words one more time, frowning. It was certainly possible that he was reading too much into this, that it was just something Sam was working on, and not necessarily some diabolical plan to skip out on him, right? It's just that when it came to Sammy, he was never sure if Sam was going to stick around. He had a bad habit, especially in the early days, of talking about taking off for good (he'd even done it a few times). So Dean had a slight complex about it, okay?

And while Sam didn't _seem_ unhappy, he was thinkin' quiet a lot, lately, and acting all weird and secretive. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little poking around and see if he could suss it out, grab the bull by the horns, so to speak.

Dean stood from his chair at the kitchen table and carried his plate to the sink, still thinking it over. It wasn’t a bad idea to be proactive and execute a little reconnaissance... 

Decided, Dean loaded his dishes into the dishwasher, then stopped at the butcher block island to grab a pen. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it with a bit more forethought, like Sam always said he should. Much as he liked to dive in and just do it, this was Sam he was talkin' about. He was like a house of cards with his secrets. One tug and it all came down, whether you wanted it or not. So Dean was going to use a delicate touch for this little experiment.

He walked back to the kitchen table and pulled the crumpled paper closer to him, smoothing it out with broad sweeps of his hands, flattening out the wrinkles.

Hmm.

 _Make a prediction_ , he read.

Okie-dokie. Sam was giant girl and was unhappy about something.

Smirking, he was about to write that down when he realized that that wasn’t a prediction, per se, (even if it _was_ true) but a _statement_.

Right then—revise. After a moment of thought, he put his pen to paper and jotted down the following under Sam’s first bullet point:

_Sam has something important to tell me, but doesn’t know how._

Dean nodded. Yep, that sounded about right. Okay, so next was—

_Lab conditions._

That was easy because Sam was always willing to talk about girly stuff like feelings, so getting him to open up wasn’t going to be _hard_ , it was just a matter of striking the right mood/conversational tone. For that he would need:

• Guy’s Night • TV • Beer • Wings 

He wrote that beneath Sam's second bullet point. A sub-bulleted list, or whatever. See a guy's night was the thing because Sam always got a little gabby when he was drunk and happy. Even giant as he was, Sam was actually a lightweight when it came to anything harder than iced tea. So if he wanted Sam to talk—voila! Give him a boy’s night by the TV with a little alcohol and the words would flow. Let Sam start talking and he would do the rest.

Dean nodded again, smiling smugly. See? Perfect. He _knew_ his brother. As for the last: the _test..._

THAT was simultaneously easy and risky, because it was just a matter of mentioning something “normal” to Sam and gauging his reaction while listening closely for his meaning, the superficial and the implicit. Start talking about 1.5 kids, a dog, and a house in the burbs. Zero carbon footprints. Green food. Easy--

Easy as pie.

It was the _fallout_ he was worried about. Getting Sam back on the I-Want-To-Be-Normal Wagon was a real risk here, but he would deal with that when he came to it.

Satisfied, Dean stood from the table, folding the (now sad looking) paper into a neat square before tucking it into his pocket, carefully, making sure he didn’t drop it. See, he was a man of details, unlike a certain hippy-haired little brother. He was careful with his secrets.

Of course, Dean mused, as he made his way to the laundry room to move his bedding into the dryer, this could be an overreaction on his part. All this planning and subterfuge. Maybe it was nothing...

Maybe Sam just needed to get laid.


	3. Busted!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resigned, and relieved on this (he hoped) final decision, Sam smiled softly to himself and continued across the library floor to the dorm hallway. He was almost home free—just a few more steps to the corridor, and the privacy of his room would enfold him, and Dean would never know he’d been gone so long. 
> 
> A beat later, a lamp snapped on behind him. 
> 
> _Uh oh. Busssted._
> 
> “Where have you been, Sam?” came the slightly hoarse, low inquiry. “You’ve been gone since yesterday.”

After stopping in the kitchen to unload his groceries, Sam walked carefully across the polished oak floor of the library, mindful of his footfalls. 

It was late, and he didn’t want to wake Dean. In fact, he just wanted to shower and hit the hay, and put all of his thoughts and world-altering revelations behind him for a while, and put off any We-Need-To-Talk conversations with Dean for tomorrow (or never). 

Because even after several hours alone, he still wasn’t decided on a course of action. On the walk to Lebanon, during his stroll through the farmer’s market, while sipping a soy macchiato at the coffee shop, and on the long walk back to the bunker, Sam had considered and reconsidered and considered again all of his options. And when all the exhausting mental gymnastics had been performed, when the pros and cons had been measured, there remained at the last the most attractive, painless course of action to take: none. 

He could simply do nothing. 

So he had discovered that his relationship with his brother, over the course of two decades, had somehow gone a little skewed. That their feelings for each other had evolved in a way that wasn’t mainstream or (he cringed inwardly and pulled a face at his choice of words) “normal.” What did it matter? 

He and Dean, they’d never _been_ normal a day in their lives. They were never meant to be, not since they’d both learned the darker, harsher truths of the world. That was something Sam used to rail against, fight bitterly to deny and struggle endlessly to change. He had wanted so desperately to be normal almost the whole of his life. 

But he wasn’t. 

He simply was _not_ ; he was the son of hunters, one born into the life and one made by circumstances beyond his control. His father painfully and ruthlessly shaped by tragedy, forged by fire, literally. (As was he in turn, when he lost Jess.) He and Dean knew the truth of their harsh world, the entire truth (or nearly so, Sam shuddered to think that there were evils yet undiscovered), and nothing could be unknown or unseen…

There was no going back to a state of being that had never existed for him in the first place. It was as simple as that. 

The isolated, narrow innocence of his childhood was a misstep—meant to protect him but it only made him vulnerable instead. It was never meant to last; it could not if he were to survive the machinations of heaven and hell that would come against him later in life. It had taken him a long time to realize that, but when he did, and he let go of the need to be something he had never been and _would_ never be, he was finally free of the torment of his futile and useless longings.

What followed was a greater happiness than he had ever known, because he wasn’t fighting himself any more, wasn’t eating himself alive with regret. And once he let go of old ideas and ambitions, he’d had the time to uncover even more startling truths about himself, and Dean, and what they were to each other. But it didn’t mean anything had to change, right? 

He could just take this kernel of (new, startling) truth and tuck it away in some safe space and leave it there. Like the cursed objects his Dad used to store. It was known, and it was contained, and there let it rest until the end of time. So he was pretty sure that Dean loved him, maybe even had erotic feelings for him, and he, Sam, had the same for him. It didn’t mean anything had to necessarily _change_ between them. He could just, in the words of McCartney, Let It Be.

Resigned, and relieved on this (he hoped) final decision, Sam smiled softly to himself and continued across the library floor to the dorm hallway. He was almost home free—just a few more steps to the corridor, and the privacy of his room would enfold him, and Dean would never know he’d been gone so long. 

A beat later, a lamp snapped on behind him. 

_Uh oh. Busssted_. 

“Where have you been, Sam?” came the slightly hoarse, low inquiry. “You’ve been gone since yesterday.” 

Sam spun slowly on his heel, trying to suppress the twin burst of surprise and annoyance that tightened his back and jacked up his shoulders. He tried to keep from pulling a face as he completed his turn and centered Dean in his sights. He didn’t want to start a fight. He was just too tired to deal with that sort of thing right now, not when he had finally found a measure of peace in his own mind on this whole Dean…thing. 

Which was blown all to hell the moment he set eyes on his brother bathed in golden light. Once he faced Dean completely he was struck through, for sitting as he was, limned by the light of the Tiffany lamp, Dean looked undeniably…beautiful. Now that Sam was looking with newly opened eyes, as it were, he could see that even clad in The Dead Guy Robe (his favorite) and slippers, with his shadowed, stubbled face, dead tired and sleep mussed, Dean _still_ looked unfairly, damningly, and staggeringly lovely. 

“Hey Dean.” 

That full, soft mouth, which had been distracting Sam for hours, and pulling him all to pieces mentally and emotionally, tugged down into a frown. He looked tired and had circles blooming under his (gorgeous) eyes in addition to the stubble. And he must have fallen asleep in the wingback at some point because his hair was spiky and unkempt. Not that it mattered, fuck him, because he was still just so… _beautiful_. Why did he keep circling back to that word?

(And wouldn’t he just _love_ it if he heard himself described thus. What a party it would be to try and defuse Mr. Manly’s Shit Fit after he learned he was in any way thought of as “lovely” or “beautiful” by another _man_ let alone his little brother. But Sam was tired, and when he was tired he got sappy, and repetitive, apparently. Besides, it wasn’t every day that you discovered that your brother was the fucking love of your life, after all.) 

((Or that he was just as in love with you as you were with him.)) 

“Yeah…don’t just say ‘hey’ like that” Dean snapped, dragging back Sam from his thoughts. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” 

Sam shrugged, trying to stifle his own impatience. “Uh…late?” 

Dean’s frown dug even deeper, and his fingers tightened into fists where they rested on the arms of the chair. Dammit. Looked like Dean was in a temper. 

“ _Late_ ,” Dean echoed in a deep, derpy tone and rolled his eyes. “It’s not just late, Sam. It’s the next day. It is now—” he made a point of craning his neck sideways to glance at the gold and pearl inlaid Grandfather clock behind them, “Twelve Oh Two. _AM_. As in _Almost Morning_. Did you know that?” he finished, rising to his feet and taking a step closer to Sam. "Twelve Oh _Two_ , Sammy. Which means that it’s tomorrow. You've been gone since _yesterday_." 

Standing there feeling like a kid caught sneaking back into the bunker, and noting the almost prissy look on Dean's tired face suddenly struck Sam as pretty damn funny, and before he knew it he was giggling, feeling like he was 16 again, trying to get one past Dad—

"Something funny, Sam?" Dean asked, stepping closer, sounding a bit more pissed off than before, (like it had cranked up a notch) narrowing his eyes at his brother. 

God _yes_ , there was. Sam was suddenly struck by how fucking _cute_ Dean looked at that moment, getting all wound up for a fight while wearing his 'jammies and crossing his arms over his chest like a wronged housewife. And it was even worse when he noted that his brother was presently attempting to glare daggers at him from under bambi-like lashes and sneering with that cupid’s bow mouth, which, ya know, wasn’t exactly the badass look he was going for.

He snorted once behind his fist and then couldn't help it anymore, throwing his head back to let out a big belly laugh, something he hadn't done in years. "Dean!" he cracked aloud, "shit, _D-dean_ !" 

Dean's expression soured further. "Well, glad to see you enjoying yourself, though I fail to see what's so damn funny, Sam." 

"Your _face!_ " Sam answered in a rush, desperately trying to remain upright now that he'd started laughing, "You're j-just...HAH! You've got no ide--" 

“Oh yeah? While you’re over there yukking it up, did you stop to think that maybe I was worried when I didn’t hear from you for over **6** hours?”

Still giggling, it took a few moments for Dean’s remark to penetrate. _What_? Sam thought. And then: _oh_.

 ** _Oh_**.

Just like that, Sam’s humor deflated. Had he really been gone that long? “Oh man, Dean. I’m sorry.” They always made it a point to keep tabs on each other when they were separated for long periods of time. Texting, short calls, that kind of thing. Sam had simply forgotten, just walking forward on automatic, his head swimming with troubling realizations about himself and his brother. “I forgot,” he admitted softly, stepping closer to Dean, his tone contrite. “I didn’t notice the time, I guess. I didn’t mean to go dark on you.”

And he hadn’t. It was just that he’d had some incredible shit he had to work through. Thought he had resolved. The walk into Lebanon had given him a reason to be alone in his own head, and away from the source of all his troubling speculations. But now here he stood, right in front of the very person that he realized meant all the word to him, and it all came full circle. Here was his brother, that he loved. 

That he…wanted. 

Nodding inwardly, Sam came to another (he hoped) final conclusion. 

He wanted it, whatever _it_ was between them. _All_ of it.

“Well you did, Sam. And I don’t appreciate being dumped like that.”

“I know, I just forgot.” It was time to try something different. To take a risk.

To… _experiment_.

“Yeah? Well you—“

Before his brother could finish his reply, Sam took a single step closer to his brother, closing the miniscule gap between them by wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him close. He tugged until he felt Dean’s ribs lock into place with his, until he could tuck his head over Dean’s shoulder and press his cheek to his brother’s, slotting them together. He heard the soft rasp of their facial hair as their cheeks met, and he heaved a sigh, closing his eyes.

“S-sam? What’s…?” 

He could feel the slight jump of Dean’s pulse under his chin, a wobble in its rhythm as he pulled his brother even closer. And fuck, that tell-tail stutter. It made something dark curl with satisfaction inside of him. He wasn’t wrong, it seemed. There _was_ something between them, something he hadn’t known existed until now. Which meant the time had come for the first phase of the experiment.

_(Okay. Here goes...)_

_1\. Prediction: If Dean has romantic or even erotic feelings for me, he will respond to my overtures._

“I really am sorry, Dean” he whispered, allowing his genuine feelings to color the tone of his voice. He dropped all pretense and let his sincerity show, infusing his words with more warmth and softness than usual, something he’d never truly allowed before with Dean, and it was almost frightening to try it now. But despite his fears, Sam realized it was time to pull out all the stops and take his first steps onto new ground. That done, it was on to step—

_2\. Lab conditions: Make it intimate and take the physicality up a notch._

He knew what girls liked, and he wasn’t certain if it would work the same on Dean, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Canting his lips close to the ring of Dean’s ear, he huffed a small breath and added, “Okay?” He pitched his voice low and sweet, a trifle seductive, but he kept it as close to sincere as possible, because he wasn’t gonna bullshit with his brother. “You forgive me?”

He felt Dean’s minute, barely-there tremor under the loop of his arms, felt him swallow, and he smiled, burying his face in Dean’s hair. _So far, so good_.

Here was all the proof he needed. Because now Dean was leaning into him, his own arms sliding around Sam’s shoulders and tightening, the fingers of his right hand pushing beneath the thick hair at his nape, tangling softly in the dark, curling strands.

“Do you?” he prompted, keeping the same sweet tone, feeling a bit stupid and strange acting like a…boyfriend rather than a brother, but he wasn’t a wuss, and wasn’t gonna back down now, not when his first experiment was almost complete.

“Yeah, Sammy,” came the softened reply. There wasn’t a trace of ire in his voice now, but more like surprise and even confusion. Like he wasn’t sure what was happening. Sam chuckled. He sure knew what that was like. It was about time Dean felt some of the same.

At his chuckle Dean stiffened and tried to pull away, but Sam didn’t let him. He didn’t want to break the spell just yet. He tugged at Dean gently once to get him to stop, and when Dean settled a moment later, he mentally prepared himself for the next phase of this particular experiment. Which was—

_3\. Run the test and observe the results._

Dean huffed, a little less pliable than he was a moment before. “Somethin’ funny, Sam?” He demanded, pulling his face away from his brother’s until he was looking into his eyes, that truculent frown returning to the corners of his mouth. “Or is it me you’re laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing at you, Dean” Sam replied gently, “Okay? It’s just…you’re always looking out for me. Always have. And I don’t think I ever tell you what that means to me. Or thank you enough.”

“Yeah. Well…” Dean began, lowering his eyes a moment to gather his composure (because sincerity always threw Dean a little, knocked him off guard) and Sam took a breath and launched into the last part of this impromptu experiment. Slowly, incrementally, he moved his hand to Dean’s back—

“Who else is gonna look out for you, Sammy?”

And pushed his fingers under the hem of Dean’s shirt, searching for, and finding, the warm skin beneath, sliding his hand across that warmth until it filled his palm—

“I mean, it’s not l-like—“ Dean ground to a halt just as Sam’s palm hit home, his eyes widening a fraction as Sam spread his hand to span almost two-thirds the width of his brother’s back, (Sam had never noticed their difference in size as he did now) his breath stilling, his eyes lowered to the floor over Sam’s shoulder. Since Dean wasn’t looking at him, he could observe his brother’s face closely, without reserve, so he saw the way Dean’s lashes fluttered just a trifle, the way his face warmed slightly pink and his confusion (and maybe a small bit of fear?) increased.

“Sammy,” he whispered, like he was struggling to produce volume, or he was somehow loathe to break the suddenly tense atmosphere between them, raising his eyes to Sam’s. “What…w-what’s…—“

 _Nope. Don’t let him talk, and don’t let him think too much. Action. Go with Action. But don’t press, because he’s ready to bolt_.

So he loosened his hold on Dean, sliding his palm from beneath Dean’s shirt and gently squeezing the base of his back on the way out. But before he pulled completely away, he pressed a soft kiss to Dean’s temple.

“Man, I’m beat. I really am sorry, Dean, okay? Let’s forget about it and go to bed, huh? See you in the morning.”

And before Dean could reply, could act, Sam squeezed his shoulder and stepped past him into the dorm hallway and turned sharply around the corner, walking at a steady clip until he got to his door, barely pausing to grasp the door handle and turn it before crossing over the threshold, stepping inside, and closing it softly behind him.

He stood with his back to the door for a few moments, his heart pounding, inexplicably giddy with some kind of nervous excitement. But maybe it wasn’t so hard to understand. He had just completed his first experiment, after all. And he’d been blown away at all the new information that had been revealed. All that remained was one vital question.

In the end, had the results had supported the hypothesis?

Sam flashed back to the slight blush on his brother’s face, the tremor in his voice, the way Dean had trembled (there was no other word for it, really) when he whispered low in his ear. How he’d shivered when he’d touched his skin (all too briefly), smoothing it beneath his palm—

Yes. Yes they _had_. 

The first experiment, then, was a success. That meant that there was room for further study, if he wanted to pursue it…

Did he?

Sam thought of the way his brother had looked in soft gold light, and imagined how it would have been if he’d been bold enough to take a step he had only recently begun to imagine as a possibility between them. He imagined, for a moment, that instead of pulling away he had bent his face closer, cradling his brother’s face between his palms and lowering his mouth to Dean’s, feeling the first velvet touch of Dean’s mouth beneath his. That (he imagined) exquisite softness. Imagined pressing closer, slanting his mouth over Dean’s and licking his way inside, pushing his lips apart to chase the warmth within. Tangling his tongue with Dean’s…

He groaned and broke away from his steamy thoughts, now more awake and in need of a (cold) shower than ever.

 _Holy fuck, did he want **that**_. 

It seemed like he had his answer, then.


	4. Walking On Rice Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean was as still as stone where Sam had left him, eyes widened, unblinking, staring into the gray, green and yellow tiled hallway just beyond.
> 
> See, either this was a sign of the apocalypse (again), or Sam had just made a move on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter, and maybe a few after will touch upon some dark themes, so please be aware. I was aiming for, and hoping to keep things light while writing this, but when it comes to the Winchester brothers, there's a lot of darkness to their hearts and minds as well as light, and I think it's inevitable when writing about these two. My hope is that you will ride through the storm with us.

What.

The hell.

Was _that_.

Dean was as still as stone where Sam had left him, eyes widened, unblinking, staring into the gray, green and yellow tiled hallway just beyond.

See, either this was a sign of the apocalypse (again), or Sam had just made a move on him.

As he stood unmoving in the the middle of the library, shell shocked, for a good twenty minutes, he fought his growing panic and tried to determine which it was, because in either case, it was a Big Fucking Deal.

If it was the first, it meant that he had to haul ass and gather the usual tools and weapons and get crackin' on the ass whuppin', then save Sammy or die tryin'. Ya know, par for the course.

If it was the second, it meant he had major head trauma. Or he was under the control of another Djinn, because there was no way in hell that this could happen, that his brother felt for him what he felt for Sam.

What he'd felt for so, _so_ long. Nearly his entire life.

Yet all of these thoughts, quickly as they surfaced, were nothing but an attempt to distract himself from the crushing weight now pressing on his chest, or the tears from gathering in his eyes. This was not reality, and something was very wrong. Sam’s behavior was clue Number 1. See, _he_ was the one who was fucked up; the one damaged, tainted with a permanent evil, and _not_ his brother. _He_ was the one who had something dirty moving through his veins. Something that had given rise to an impure longing for Sam, a longing that had eaten away at him for years and that he kept under tight control. Sam had never, and _should_ never, feel the same about him. Sam was in every way as normal as he so desperately longed to be, and he didn't even know it. _Sam_ wasn’t the one in love with his brother in a way that wasn't natural. _Sam_ wasn't the one with soul damning lust for his own flesh and blood. _Sam_ didn’t want to fuck _him_ , see. There wasn’t a molecule of his body that loved Dean the wrong way, so that left only one other possibility.

Possession. Demonic, or otherwise.

 _Had to be_ , he thought, taking a quick swipe at his eyes to stem the waterworks. Despite the warding tattoo, maybe one had found a way in to his brother, because that was their MO. They liked to fuck with your head, play with you for a while before they went for the kill, because it was all about torment and torture for them. Like tenderizing the meat before throwing it on to the fire. Dean _knew_ demons, see, better than he had ever wanted to. They had a way of digging in deep, down to the darkest reaches of your soul, to the bedrock where all your worst secrets lay. And there in the grit of your most basic self, they would rake their talons all over the broken, sore, and bleeding bits, shifting for the remains of your deepest regrets, your guilt, and chomp them like kibble between their teeth...

What they had done to him, what he had almost become, was a truth he had buried as deep as it would go. But he was stronger now, stronger than he had ever been, and his time in hell and his experience with Alistair was a fact he could now face head-on. He was ready to fight dirty to exorcise this bitch infesting Sam if he had to; his only concern now was what it was doing to _Sam_.

 _That_ thought unlocked his paralysis, got him moving at last. Sam had a butt load of trauma of his own; a century locked with Lucifer and Michael in the cage. There was damage there that was far more crippling in magnitude than his own. He hadn't seen a trace of it when Sam was soulless, but he caught a glimpse of it when his wall broke. What was there was _lethal_ to Sam, and he couldn't allow a demon to start digging where it should _never_ go, because it would destroy the very last piece of Sam's soul that was still _Sam_ the human being, still his beloved little brother. He turned on his heel then and walked silently, stealthily, to the column of the second wall sconce that was situated midway through the library room, quiet as a shadow.

 _You must walk the rice paper and not leave any marks, Grasshopper,_ Dean thought to himself, unaware of the grim, hollow smile on his face, or the tear tracks on his cheeks that flashed silver under the weak light of the emergency backup lamps near the control room door. Shooting a quick glance around to be sure he wasn’t being watched (at least by anything obvious) Dean bent over to tap the oak baseboard sharply, twice, and waited for it to pop open, displaying a small cache of supplies he had stashed there a month ago, that he checked regularly and restocked as needed. 

(Sam had a similar stash somewhere, or maybe several. They didn’t disclose the locations to one another for obvious reasons, and they didn’t ask either. Because Winchesters, baby, made like the X-Files and trusted no one. And god knows when it came to a smack down they were like Boy Scouts: _always_ prepared.)

He pulled out a small plastic vial from a string bag that contained a variety of low-level white magics, grabbed a flask of Holy Water, and then a crib sheet of Enochian script. Without a sound he replaced the panel and moved it into place until the spring lock snapped back into position. He had a lot to accomplish before dawn, if he was going to stand a chance against this demon. If this motherfucker was strong enough to get past the ward seared into Sam's very flesh, than it was a demon to be reckoned with, and it could end up doing a lot of damage to them _both_ before he sent it packin'.

With that in mind, he set to work, and while it took him the rest of the night, he was ready by sunrise for any surprises--

Which was why he was stationed at the north corridor for that very purpose, eyes steady on Sam's bedroom door. Right at 6 (Sam was a sadist when it came to an early rise, he hardly ever slept in) his alarm sounded and moments later there were sounds of life within, the slight creak of the mattress (conventional spring...see? _Sadist_ ) to indicate that someone wearing the shape of his little brother was rising from their bed tout de suite without even hitting the snooze button, which sure as fuck was diabolical in itself.

(At least _that_ was consistent with Sam's usual behavior. But wait...demons didn't _need_ sleep, right, so why was it using Sam's bed?)

But before he could come to any conclusion or plan any course of action, the knob started to turn and Dean ducked back behind the wall until he was _just_ able to see around the sharp cinderblock corner.

The door opened: a shadowy simulacrum of his Sasquatch baby brother filled the door frame. Any moment, it was going to step across the threshold and reveal itself, and then the fight was on. See, Dean had planted a short, thin scroll of Enochian script under the polished oak still at the base of the threshold. Nothing like a devil's trap, but more subtle. Simply a command for all passersby to reveal their true nature. It would, in essence, compel anything inhuman to react organically to the magic. A flash of fangs from a vampire, for instance, a silver sheen over the skin of a shifter, or black, oily eyes from a demon.

Sam stepped forward and Dean tensed, ready to spring into action the moment the black-eyed son of a bitch revealed itself—

And then fell back against the wall, nonplussed, as the thing that _looked_ like Sam (same giant, shaggy haired, sleepy and stubble-faced brother as always) walked over the still without pause, his very normal, non-blackened eyes blinking owlishly in the faint glow of the sodium lamps, absently scratching his flat (bare) stomach. Dean backed off further when Sam shambled past (because really, he sure wasn't pickin' up those feet with any kind of energy, soldier) watching his face carefully for any trace, any sign, however minute, that somethin' unnatural was hitching a ride in his little brother...

And kept watching, and kept watching, and was STILL watching as Sam moved past him, close enough for Dean to smell the warmth that still clung to his bare chest and shoulders, a smell like fabric softener and sweat mixed with the remnants of his sandalwood cologne. Unconsciously, Dean took a deep breath, pulling the familiar scent into his lungs as it simultaneously jumpstarted his pulse _and_ calmed it. Surely if something fucking untoward was riding around in Sam, he wouldn't smell so familiar. So...(Sam's favorite word) _normal_ , right? 

_You know these bastards are capable of anything, dude._ He thought. _Don't be fooled._

Okie-dokie then, on to Round Two. Dean took a determined step forward after Sam disappeared. Then stopped. Then felt himself blush.

 _Fuck me_. That meant the shower. Because Sam was a creature of habit, and anything using his meatsuit was bound to keep up appearances (unnatural things like to play at being human as much as possible because it was "fun" for them) and if it knew anything about Sam, it was sure to discover his fetish for meticulous, indulgent hair care. So off to the showers it was...

And on the way, he focused on placing one foot in front of the other, determined NOT to think about where he was going, and what he was going to (deliberately) watch. Pathetic (and sickening) as it was to admit, this wasn't the first time Dean had taken a peek at his brother in the nude. He wasn't proud of it, and it certainly wasn't something he celebrated to any degree. Alistair used this dirty, shameful secret of his to fuck with him during his time in hell, and long ago Dean had decided to confront it, acknowledge it, and bury it in an effort to dilute the shame he felt for feeling this way about Sam. Fuck if he was gonna allow any other demon, or monster to use it against him again. Basically, he psychically unloaded the clip from his mental firearm and called it done.

But back when it had all started, when he'd first discovered that his feelings for Sam had taken a decidedly _unbrotherly_ turn, it wasn't easy at all. It was an almost irresistible temptation to keep his eyes from wandering Sam's way whenever they shared space in motel rooms, when jockeying for first dibs on the shower, or undressing around each other like it was no big deal. (Because it _used_ to be, ya know, before something warped inside of him.) But it got worse the more he tried to ignore it.

The urge started to fester. The curiosity and the sheer _need_ to take a look soon became an unhealthy obsession. While Dean wasn't exactly a scholar like Sam, in that he didn't intellectualize everything, he knew enough about himself and his libido to know that the worst thing he could do was keep denying the impulse. Best to tackle it head-on.

So before long he'd given in, and taken a look. And another, and another, until one night he let himself watch Sam sleep on top of the sheets in the humid damp of a Louisiana night (the rat motel had no AC) in nothing but his boxers, his eyes tracing and retracing every muscle, vein, and dusting of hair on Sam's body. For hours...

How he'd stared at that happy trail for what felt like hours, mentally sliding his hands beneath the waistband, to the point where he could almost _feel_ the thick weight of Sam's cock in his palm. He'd sat up all night just looking, as hard as nails for hours but not moving, or allowing himself to respond to his lust in any fashion. He kept his hands away from himself, and told himself, over and over, that he was going to get over this, and he was going to get over it _completely_.

By morning, after a quick, artic-cold shower, he took off and got some bagels and fruit, some coffee for Sam and himself. Kept up the not-thinking or reflecting deal, focusing on the clear blue sky, the pure white clouds, and the rich smell of fresh bread to keep his mind off of Sam. Was still doing it when he got back to their room, and while they ate breakfast. Kept doing it while Sam sat there on a bent metal chair at the dirty kitchen table, shirtless, fine beads of sweat glistening on his broad shoulders. Dean's smile so tight and plastic he thought his face was gonna break. Tried to keep his eyes from following Sam as he walked into the bathroom to shower. Kept smiling, wooden and almost maniacal, as he and Sam checked out and hit the road.

That night, he found a girl at a local bar, took her home, and fucked her brains out.

As he lay there, panting, his heart still pounding from his explosive orgasm, he felt tears pricking at his eyes, though he refused to acknowledge them. He was over it. This whole Sam thing. It was _done_.

Still lost in the memory of that difficult time, Dean was about to change his mind on his present course of action. He had traps set all over the bunker. He didn't have to be right there when Sam turned on the faucet and stepped beneath the spray of Blessed water. (He'd gotten the idea from Dad. He remembered when Dad told him about the time he'd blessed the water in a rooftop cistern before he went after Meg. So in a like fashion he'd blessed the hot water tank that supplied the dorm's showers.) That meant he'd hear it if something happened, if the thing that had taken hold of Sam started to scream in pain. He didn't have to be right there at the doorway looking in...

Despite that thought, his feet kept moving. Couldn't seem to stop himself, in fact.

In four strides after this last, guilty thought, he found himself at the corner of the doorway to the shower room. It only took him seconds to get a bead on his brother before he tucked himself back, drew a breath, and slowly moved forward again, keeping Sam in his sights. He caught just a glimpse of honey-toned skin, long, coltish legs, and wide shoulders before Sam turned on the taps and the room started to fog. (In addition to the fantastic water pressure, their heating system was fucking _stupendous_.) In short order the room was as damp and humid as an Amazonian forest (Sam loved a hot shower) and water started to bead on the tiles. Still, any minute now, the inhuman thing that possessed his brother would curl in on itself and scream, try to pull away from the acidic burn of the water in a vain effort to save itself.

Any minute now.

Soon.

Just about...now?

Long moments stretched, sagged, and then snapped as nothing the fuck happened. Again, just as he had before, Dean found himself immobile with confusion, leaning against the wall and waiting for a sign that didn't come. Sam didn't scream, or jump away from the water as if in pain. He didn't curse and writhe from the burn of purity against his flesh.

In fact, Sam was _humming_ under the spray, already soaping up that hair with his girly shampoo that smelled like apples, hope, and summer rain.

Rolling his eyes, Dean took a moment to place the tune Sam was humming softly under his breath. When he did, he couldn't help but sneak a double-take at his brother. 

The. Fuck.

Bitch was humming _Smoke On The Water_ , one of his personal favorites.

Incredulous, he found himself nodding along to the beat for a moment or two before he lost all coherent thought altogether, because Sam had turned his back to the spray, and was now facing Dean.

 _Holy shit fuck_ , Dean thought all at once, his eyes following the long lines of his brother's body down to the wet tiles beneath his feet. Sam was as hot as he'd ever been. Maybe hotter. Not a ounce of flesh sagging in the wrong way, his stomach as flat as it had been in his 20's (fucker) and his abs hard enough to double as a washboard, if he were so inclined. His eyes dropped to the darkened space between Sam's thighs, catching sight of his softened cock hanging heavy between his legs. Fucker had obviously been blessed with the big gene, and wasn't just confined to his height, of course. His cock was as beautiful and as giant as it had always been, even soft as it was now.

After a moment, when he realized that he was still looking at Sam, still hungry after all this time for the sight of his brother's naked body, he realized that it was time to step away. This wasn't who he was anymore. While the lust and need were still there they were no longer in control of him, and not relevant to the current situation he faced. He needed to tuck them away as he always had, and get the fuck over it. He pulled his eyes away, reluctantly, and backed off slowly. For all his movement, he wasn't discovered. The (glorious) water pressure made the showers nice and loud, echoing with noise that covered any possible sound of his retreating form.

After that, he kept up the vanishing act all day, watching Sam from afar. He heard Sam call out for him numerous times, and fought like hell the instinct to answer. When Sam eventually came into the kitchen to get breakfast (which Dean usually made) he seemed genuinely confused, and maybe even a little hurt, when Dean couldn't be found there either. No matter, just wait until he touched the silver—

Which he did, soon thereafter (Dean had swapped their usual cutlery with actual silver) when eating his cereal, and no dice.

In fact, for the rest of the day, Sam kept _not_ reacting to any of the traps, just like the first non-reaction to the holy water in the hot water tank:

No reaction to silver, iron, gold, or diamond. (You'd be surprised what pure minerals could kill.)

Sam didn't flinch when he tugged on his salt-laced socks, or cry out in agony when he sat down at the war room table and rested his arms across the surface he'd waxed with holy oil the night before.

Sam's flesh didn't sizzle when he sat on one of the wingback chairs to read a book later that morning, ignorant of the sage tucked beneath the cushion. In fact, he spent a good deal of the morning walking around the bunker's many maze-like corridors, opening doors and calling out for Dean, looking more confused, angry, and (oddly) hurt by the hour, the longer Dean kept himself hidden out of sight. It was difficult to truly hide any trace of himself from Sam, but he was managing it somehow. He knew that his behavior was unusual, and if there was anything possessing Sam his strange absence was enough to tip it off and ruin his advantage, but he had to keep his distance until he had eliminated every possibility and run every test. 

And he did. All of them, short of fire. And nothing happened.

At the end of a long, uneventful day, he was forced to concede that maybe Sam wasn't possessed, that he was possibly still human, and had been last night. Maybe he hadn't made on pass on his brother, either, and what Dean had thought was erotic in nature had been nothing more than the type of innocent affection they used to display towards each other as boys. He'd read the situation all wrong, and had misunderstood what had happened between them.

Sitting on the cold, damp floor of their dungeon (he loved that they had a dungeon), sipping some whiskey from his flask, Dean was forced to think that he had been sorely mistaken about his brother. Talk about pathetic. He'd taken a gesture of affection from his brother and turned the crank all the way to Defcon 1. All because he didn't understand normal love and physical affection. He was the broken one, after all.

Not his brother.


	5. Missing...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tossed his covers off and gathered his feet beneath him to rise from his bed. There was no way he was going to get to sleep if he didn't find Dean and talk to him face to face. He needed to clear the air between them, and he needed to do it now. If this was how Dean reacted to his (very) cautious attempt to make a move on him, by concluding that some monster must have gotten to his brother, then maybe he needed to drop this whole seduction thing before it did irreparable damage to their relationship. Sam was fine with keeping everything the same as it was and above the belt, if that's what Dean wanted. (And judging by the Rambo dramatics today, he more than likely did.)
> 
> He slipped on a pair of moccasins and dragged on a shirt before he left in search of his brother. The bunker was always a bit chilly during the night, despite their excellent internal systems. (Sam theorized it was due to the abundance of magic and supernatural flora and fauna they had stored in the bunker. Magic, especially dark magic, always gave off a cold feel to the touch.)

Sam glanced at his bedside alarm clock.

 _2:13 a.m._ it glowed in steady blue.

Sam sighed, his heart heavy with the sudden memory of the first appearance of that same alarm clock. He _hated_ glowing red light, see, for a number of reasons. Dean, without having to ask or seek any explanation, had simply gone out one night and found him a clock that didn't glow red and replaced it. But he didn't stop there; Dean never did anything half-assed when he truly cared. When it was important to him, when it was motivated by love (and Dean had an amazing capacity for love, despite what he thought) there was no limit to what he would do. Shortly after the alarm clock was replaced, when he and Dean had returned to the bunker after a long, hard case, both ready to go to bed, Sam had said good night and went to his room to crash, only to pause in the doorway when he noticed the subtle color change in nearly every detail throughout. His bed covers, his lightweight quilt, his bedside lamp and the overhead lamp attached to his headboard (because he liked to read in bed) were all glowing in softer, brighter colors. There wasn't anything with color in the red spectrum; not a single trace.

Sam slept deep and dreamless that night.

Not so much now. He was wide awake starring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had gone wrong since last night. He'd spent most of the day chasing after Dean all over the bunker like some kind of fucked up game of hide-n-seek, only to find his brother stubbornly elusive. Even after all the tests and traps, and passing them with flying colors, Dean kept his distance.

(Of course Sam knew about the traps. He had some of the very same tricks up his sleeve. Dean didn't realize that holy oil had a kind of anise-like smell, and that the war room table had been gleaming with a fine sheen of oil that hadn't been there the night before. And the sage--he could smell that as well. Sam had a nose for herbs, even though he wasn't a good cook. Not as good as Dean was, in any case.)

Though he hadn't understood exactly why he had to, he'd played the cat and mouse game Dean had set up in order to prove to his brother that he was the same Sam as always. Wholly and perfectly (well, not _perfectly_ ) human. Still his Sammy. 

(Though there was an undeniable stain on his soul that Dean didn't know about, and he would _never_ reveal to his brother. When he'd walked through his bedroom doorway that morning he'd felt the tug of something magic in his veins, like a magnetic pull from deep within, his blood responding to some call that he didn't hear so much as sense. Later that day he discovered the cleverly hidden scroll beneath the still of his door, and translating the Enochian, he saw that it was a command to reveal truth. So something in his blood must still bear the mark of his demonic taint to have answered such simple magic, much to his disgust and shame.)

But now all he felt was annoyance mixed with concern and regret. Dean wasn't in his room (he'd checked an hour ago) so that meant he was still hiding out somewhere in the bunker. Waiting for Sam to go nuclear so they could finally throw down and start the big boss fight.

 _That's it._ He fumed inwardly. _Time for this shit to end._

Sam tossed his covers off and gathered his feet beneath him to rise from his bed. There was no way he was going to get to sleep if he didn't find Dean and speak to him face to face. He needed to clear the air between them, and he needed to do it now. If this was how Dean reacted to his (very) cautious attempt to make a move on him, by concluding that some monster must have gotten to his brother, then maybe he needed to drop this whole seduction thing before it did irreparable damage to their relationship. Sam was fine with keeping everything the same as it was and above the belt, if that's what Dean wanted. (And judging by the Rambo dramatics today, he more than likely did.)

He slipped on a pair of moccasins and dragged on a shirt before he left in search of his brother. The bunker was always a bit chilly during the night, despite their excellent internal systems. (Sam theorized it was due to the abundance of magic and supernatural flora and fauna they had stored in the bunker. Magic, especially dark magic, was always frigid to the touch, and dark artifacts gave off a chill that was bone-jarring and unmistakable.)

He paused when he reached the end of the corridor and stood at the threshold of the library room. He was too tired to wander all over the bunker for the next hour, so he stopped to consider a strategy. There were too many places to search, so he had to eliminate the least likely and go for the most obvious. Easy peasey.

It was either 1: _Kitchen_ or 2: _dungeon_

If Dean was anywhere, that's where he'd be.

Yet while he'd thought of the kitchen first, (because while Dean was horny quiet a lot he was _always_ hungry) his gut was pulling him toward the dungeon, so Sam took off for the stairs and made his way down into the basement. Immediately, once his head cleared the landing, he felt the unnatural chill of the basement seep past the last vestige of warmth leftover from his bed, and he rubbed his arms a bit to chase it away. Whenever he came down into the basement, he could feel the weight of so many undead eyes watching his every move, hear the whisper of damned souls, creatures in pain, in varying states of torment, crying out for their freedom. There were thousands of shades and evils tucked away among the shelves and catacombs. (Dean wasn't as thrilled with the discovery of their catacombs as much as he'd been with their "dungeon." He'd made several allusions to Poe and kept calling calling Sam "Fortunato," but after several of Sam's non-reactions, he gave up the ghost.) So Dean couldn't spend the night down here; he'd wake up sore and stiff with both natural and unnatural side effects. Sam was eager to find him and get him back to his own bed before that happened. The rest of his concerns could wait until later.

At the end of the hallway loomed the floor-to-ceiling metal-and-wood shelving that harbored a variety of decaying organic matter as well as boxes and jars crammed with...stuff...that gave off an unpleasant supernatural effluvia and made his nose wrinkle. They'd had a notion to clean out the bunker several times, get rid of the old things stored and piled up everywhere, but after a few mishaps with objects still surprisingly active and potent, they'd abandoned that idea pretty quickly. Best to leave it alone.

Sam took hold of the small iron wheel for the dungeon door that was set back in the wall and started to turn it, the metal screeching at first but then loosening and moving quietly and smoothly under his touch as he spun the wheel, interior chains rattling. So much for the element of surprise, with the racket he was making, made worse by the noise of the shelving wheels as he pulled the big ranges apart to step inside their dungeon. He may as well have announced himself with a marching band.

But it was no matter, because Sam found his brother all right, fast asleep against the far wall, snoring softly, oblivious to the noise and clatter of the dungeon doors opening, grimacing briefly when a yellow sliver of light from the hallway washed over his face, merely turning his head to the side to escape the brunt of it, a soft sigh escaping him as he settled in to the new position.

Sam shook his head, an ache in his chest he couldn't describe upon seeing his brother, at last, after so many hours' absence.

"Okay, come on man, time for bed," he stated, walking over to Dean's prone form curled up against the cobblestone walls. He tapped Dean gently on the shoulder. "Up up, sleepyhead. Let's go, okay?"

This close, he could smell the whiskey Dean had obviously consumed before falling asleep. A sharp stab of sorrow lanced through him at that; Dean too often reached for the booze when something was bothering him. It explained his lack of response to the noise of Sam's entrance and his still undisturbed sleep. That, and the unnatural things around them wielding their influence. Sam cast his eyes about him once when a cold draft washed over this shoulders. This basement was genuinely creepy, and neither he nor his brother scared easy, so it was definitely bad news. He'd best get Dean out of here and back to the safety of his room, pronto.

"Dean, hey," Sam tried again, this time gently tapping his brother on the cheek, and then unable to resist the urge, cupping that square, perfect jaw in this hand, running his thumb over the darkened shadows under his eyes, marveling at the silky feel of his long lashes against his fingertips. He probably hadn't a chance to grab much sleep these last two days, what with laying booby traps and all the dramatics, so he must be exhausted. "Dean," he repeated, "come on, man."

Those same impossible lashes fluttered for a beat or two, opened a crack. He saw just a sliver of golden-laced green before they closed again, having registered nothing.

"Suh...S-sammy?" He said, his voice sounded small and uncertain, like the query of a little boy, and Sam felt tears start to prick at his eyes. "Tha' you?" _Oh man_ , Sam sighed inwardly, _he doesn't sound good_.

He didn't appear to have any talisman's or white magic around him. They were useful down here in this cursed space, but maybe he hadn't thought of that before popping a sqaut against the damp stone walls.

"Yeah, Dean," he said aloud, trying to sound chipper, despite the tightness in his throat, and his concern. "Can't sleep here, man."

He started to slid his hands under Dean's shoulders to haul him to his feet while simultaneously tapping at the toes of Dean's boot with his own, trying to get him to stand up. He'd just started to tug him upright when Dean reached out for him and grabbed hold of his biceps, curling his fingers in a tight but careful grip, like he was holding on to something fragile or precious. "Sammy," Dean said again, a little clearer this time but still buried under the fog of sleep. "Sammy," he repeated. "Luh you...l-luh so much."

Sam stilled in absolute shock, half crouching and half standing with his brother in his arms, looking down at Dean slack, beatific features, so open and expressive when he was like this, sleepy and thick-tongued. Sam wasn't sure if he'd just heard what he thought he'd heard, or if he was mistaken.

"What?" he asked, trying to keep the shock from his voice, keep it even, giving none of his surprise away. His pulse was pounding in his throat, and he couldn't seem to catch a complete breath. "Dean," he prodded gently, "What did you say?"

"Peas," Dean muttered, suddenly changing tack, sounding far away, lost in the depths of a dream, answering some inner dialogue. "Tha's it."

 _Peas_? Sam frowned, then shrugged, damned if he knew. He could have sworn that Dean had just said that he loved him. Something he hardly ever said to Sam unless it was a matter of imminent death. But he must have heard wrong after all, because now he was blabbing about peas. Maybe Dean was trifle hungry after all, and was dreaming about food. It was no use trying to follow dream logic. "Sure man," he replied, trying to ignore his disappointment, getting Dean to his feet at last. He pulled Dean's slack arm over his shoulders and tucked him into his side, still knocking his toes against Dean's feet to get him to stand better, to put more weight on his feet. "Peas and carrots. Whatever you say, Dude. Thought you were allergic to vegetables."

Dean shuffled a bit, staggering when Sam attempted to pull him forward, to get him moving. Dean took a fumbling step, then another, and then suddenly stopped, tugging at Sam like he wanted him to stop. "No, Sammy," he said, still tugging back against his hold, still caught inexorably between wakefulness and sleep, his voice louder and more aware, but his eyes still closed, his limbs loose and plaint against Sam's side. "Not...nah vegg-ibles."

Yeah, that sounded more like him. He was probably dreaming of a good steak. 

"Piece," he said then, suddenly as clearly as if he were fully awake. "You're the... _piece_."

Sam did stop then, turned to look fully at his brother in confusion as they stood there, tightly wound together at the base of the stairs. "Dean...hey..." Sam tried, shaking his brother gently, "what are you talking about, huh?” He cupped Dean's jaw and shook it gently, "Huh? Wake up," and he did succeed in reviving him a little, but when Dean opened his eyes and looked at Sam, his expression was glassy and distant.

"What the fuck, man?"

Sam sighed. "You feel alseep here, dude. I'm just trying to get you to bed."

Dean looked around, uncomprehending for a moment, certainly showing some surprise at his current surroundings.

"Where am I?" Blinking, more of the sleep fog lifting from his eyes.

"Basement, man. You were out cold."

He turned and looked at his brother, a trace of sadness, and some other emotion not so easy to identify that looked a lot like regret, passing over his sleep-pale face. "I was?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, tucking his shoulder back under Dean's armpit and pulling him up taller, helping him stand a little firmer, "Come on, let's get out of here. It's dangerous to spend too much time down here."

"I'm coming," Dean answered, dropping his eyes and automatically tightening his hold on Sam's shoulders. He began moving forward with him at last, lifting his feet when they came to the stairs and starting the climb up with his brother. They'd left many a scene of destruction behind them in much the same fashion, holding each other up, staggering side by side as they left the carcass of some unfortunate thing smoking behind them. It was second nature to carry each other this way. Even though Dean was awake now and more than capable, he didn't move away from his brother, and neither did Sam. It didn't seem to occur to either of them that they could walk alone, unaided. Instead they tightened their hold on one another and kept climbing. Feeling the air warm the higher they went, leaving all of those old, broken, frigid and evil things behind them.

They paused in unison at the top of the stairs. Sam glanced at his brother, and could see that he was truly awake now, though there was still the remnants of a dream state lingering in the set of his handsome features. He was blinking slowly, unusually quiet and pliant under Sam's hold, gazing into the distance.

Sam took a breath.

"So what this about me being a piece?" he asked gently.

"What?" Dean stiffened minutely under his hold. Though he tried like hell to stifle and cover his surprise, Sam could feel his brother still with shock at his softly spoken words. Clearly, this was something that held meaning for Dean even in the waking world, judging by his sudden, forced nonchalance. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Just something you said down there, when I was trying to wake you up, " Sam answered, just as casual, as if they were discussing a grocery list or whose turn it was to wash the dishes. "You were muttering something. About me. And a piece, or something. You said that I was the piece." 

Dean shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, gently disengaging himself from Sam's side and stepping aside to stretch his back and shoulders. "Hell if I know, Sam," he grunted as he tried to ease the ache in his back, speaking in the direction of the tiled wall. And if _that_ wasn't enough of an indication of a rather strong reaction to his query, the way he dropped his eyes completely and looked away from Sam and toward his bedroom door clinched it. "Why are asking that, anyway?"

This discussion wasn't going to get anywhere tonight, Sam could see. And it wasn't relevant, anyway. Not after today.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter," Sam replied. "Just something you said half asleep."

Dean nodded, then yawned, a geniune reaction, because he was no doubt exhuasted. "Must have been some weird dream or something." He patted Sam on the shoulder before turned toward his bedroom door, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Night, Sammy. I've got to crash."

"Dean," Sam called out, unable to stop himself, unwilling to let this go just yet, because--

"What happened today, man? What was with all the traps?"

Dean smiled sadly, looking a mite shame-faced. "So you knew about that huh?"

At Sam's slightly incredulous expression, Dean nodded. "Should've known I couldn't get anything past you, Brainiac."

"Come on, Dean. It couldn't have been more obvious."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah? Well sometimes shit happens, Sam. We've both been through enough to know that. I guess I thought something went wrong with you, and I just...reacted, you know?"

"You did, huh? Like what? I mean, it's like you thought I was...possessed or something."

Dean's shoulders slumped a bit, and his usual bravado all but failed him as he stood unmoving under the arch of the sodium lamp above his head. He looked up at Sam, briefly, and then shook his head, as if answering an internal question. His exhaustion, and that inexplicable sadness still marred his perfect features.

"So what was it?"

"Nothing, Sammy. Just a mistake. Let's talk about it later, huh? I'm really tired."

"Okay," he didn't want to push, and Dean was right. This could wait until tomorrow. "Never mind." He started to walk backwards in the direction of his own bedroom door. "Night, Dean."

"Night, Sammy" came the reply, and Dean opened his door and slipped inside.

After a moment, Sam went back to his own room, stepped inside, and began to shut the door. But he stopped short of truly closing it, leaving it open a fraction so he could just see the muted light of the hallway beyond, hear any noise should someone walk past. He had this strange fear that Dean was going to bolt before dawn, make up some excuse to leave to escape their conversation. Tired as he was, Sam didn't go back to sleep, but spent the rest of the night watching, listening, and waiting for any sign that his brother was leaving. Ready to stop him if he tried. There was no more running out on each other, not anymore. He wouldn't allow the trust they'd gained over the last several years slip away. Not again.

But the night was quiet, and still. Just before dawn, Sam fell asleep while staring at the glowing blue light of his alarm clock, thinking of Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. I wrote this chapter fairly quickly and I'm not too happy about it overall. I may add or edit in this chapter over the next few days...
> 
> I hate when my confidence fluctuates and I start to feel like I'm taking to long to build up to a moment I had envisioned prior to writing it. I hope you will stick with me. Thanks all.


	6. Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As dawn was slowly lighting the sky, something ancient and very, very hungry was struggling to stay awake and connected to the soul that had roused her. Such a bright, beautiful soul, unlike any she had known for centuries, with such extraordinary courage and exquisite emotion. A veritable feast of bravery, doubt, shame, pride and fierce, all-consuming love. A warrior's heart.

_As dawn was slowly lighting the sky, something ancient and very, very hungry was struggling to stay awake and connected to the soul that had roused her. Such a bright, beautiful soul, unlike any she had known for centuries, with such extraordinary courage and exquisite emotion. A veritable feast of bravery, doubt, shame, pride and fierce, all-consuming love. A warrior's heart. She had tasted him, briefly. One tantalizing drop of his essence like the shock of cool, sweet water on her parched tongue. After so long starving and thirsting, locked away alone and cold and dying, just a drop of him was enough to rouse her hunger to a scorching, burning need. Yet before she could latch on to him fully, he woke and moved away from her, too far for her to reach, and she wailed in despair. Gnashed her teeth in fury. She would die without him! She **needed him**!_

_Yet in the midst of her rage, just at the periphery of her limited, dulled senses, she suddenly found another. ANOTHER. Two warriors of old! While it seemed impossible her luck could change so remarkably after centuries languishing in hunger, she didn't stop to marvel at her circumstances and simply reached for him as well. The moment she latched on she drew back in shock and terrible, shattering pleasure. **Oh** he was sinfully delicious. Equal in strength and passion, though a darker taste than her first, sweet, honeyed one. THIS one was like blood and smoke and flesh. A savory to her sweet. Hard as she tried, so sluggish, so old, so **hungry** , she could not reach him again. He was very clever, and maddeningly elusive, that one._

_Then, suddenly, for one moment when they touched, held each other close, she found a crack where she could slip through, unnoticed, and she rushed to latch on before it was too late. Before she would lose herself forever to oblivion. She was dying and desperate, dying by slow degrees in her cold, dark prison, and she knew that if she failed to capture either one she would die at last, permanently, and would fade into nothing. In one final, desperate attempt to save herself, she used the last of her waning strength to reach out as far as she could, searching, seeking, looking for a way--_

_And found it, there in the heart of her Sweet One. His open, hurting heart. She sunk in her teeth and began to suck, taking long, greedy pulls of his unanswered desires and longings into her hungry, jagged maw._

_Delicious._

_Later, when he slumbered, and she had regained strength, bolstered by the meal of his essence, she reached out again and woke him, urged him forward. She wanted to taste the other one once more, wanted to glut herself on his darker, rich essence._

_**Find him, Sweet One**_ , she urged. **_Go to him. Find him for me, so I can eat of him too_**.

Dean woke by degrees, muzzy and confused. When he opened his eyes he was momentarily thrown to find himself gazing up at the familiar pattern of his bedroom ceiling. Hadn't he been in the dungeon? Yes, he had been, he remembered, drinking alone and feeling sorry for himself. How did he get here? 

Then the brief but welcome memory of Sam's arms around his shoulders, the two of the walking through the hallway, came to the surface, answering his question. Rubbing at his eyes and waking further, he glanced over at his bedside clock.

_5:42_

Early. Way too motherfucking early to get up, that was for sure. And he must not have been asleep for long because his whole body felt cold, and stiff, like he'd just got through wrestling a Wendigo. _Fuck it, go back to bed dude._ He turned over and was just about to lay back down when something strong hooked him in the gut and he stiffened in shock at the sensation, eyes opening wider as he woke further. The urge, the sudden overwhelming need to _go to Sam_ compelled him to move before he could put it to thought, and he found that he had tossed the covers aside and shoved his feet into his slippers before he was truly aware of what he was doing.

The next moment found him in the hallway, moving in the direction of Sam's room. He couldn't remember taking any steps from his bed to the door, couldn't remember donning the Dead Guy Robe or tying the belt. He was only vaguely aware that he was walking, feeling disconnected from every sensation, like he was floating rather than walking the hallway. He was, in fact, only aware of one detail and one alone; how tired he was, how he just wanted to lay down and sleep for the next century. Preferably next to Sam.

 _Sammy_ , he thought, desperately trying to stay awake, but it was so, so hard. _I've got to find...Sammy_.

 _Yes...yes you do, Sweet One_.

Now more asleep than awake, Dean softly turned the knob and opened Sam's door. _Wait, something's wrong_.

_No, my Sweet One, fear not. I will soothe you. Go to him._

"Sam," Dean whispered, walking on automatic to his brother's bedside. Tucked under the covers, laying on his side, was his brother, fast asleep. _Have to tell him_...

_No. Hush my love. You are well._

_Like hell, lady_ , Dean thought with one last surge of defiance before he lost track of all thought altogether and it was replaced with pure need. The need to be close to his brother, to be warm, and to be safe.

He untied his robe and let it fall to the floor, then pulled the covers aside and joined his brother on the bed, laying down behind him and scooting close until his chest was pressed flat against his brother's broad back. Once there, he pulled the covers black in place until they were both secure under its warmth. Not quite content with the arrangement, Dean reached out and wrapped his arms around Sam just like he used to when they were boys sharing a bed, when all they had was each other.

_Yes, yes my Sweet..._

There was that fucking chick again. Who was she, and what the fuck did she want?

 _Give yourself to me. Give HIM to me_.

"Give what?" Dean asked aloud, sliding his arms nice and tight around Sam's chest before settling in further with a deep, contented sigh. Hell yeah, this was the stuff. He used to sleep like this all the time back in the day, and god, did he miss it.

 _Give me your feelings for him. His for you. **Everything**_.

 _Nah, fuck off_ , Dean thought, mouth opening to let out a jaw-cracking yawn. _Get your own, bitch_. And as his eyes slipped closed, he tucked his forehead close to the nape of Sam's neck, and succumbed to true sleep at last.

Below, something wailed, snarling in agonized defeat.

  
  
~~ ** ~~   
  


_Warm_ , Sam thought, _doan wanna to get up. Wanna stay here._

But he was waking anyway, despite his reluctance. It was gradual, like floating gently to the surface after being submerged for a time under bathwater. Incredibly warm water that somehow smelled and felt like home, and brother, and _home_. Just before he opened his eyes, his shifted a little because his arm felt pinned, and as he turned, another set of arms around his torso tightened and pulled him back into place, up against something solid and familiar.

"Dean?" he asked, blinking a bit to clear the muzzy fog from his eyes, yawning wide. At the feel of a soft breath against the side of his ear, he roused himself more fully and turned over within the circle of those same arms, the shape and feel of which he would recognize anywhere. When he'd settled completely, he wasn't truly surprised to see Dean gazing back at him, though he was more than a little confused. Hadn't they gone to their own rooms last night, like they always did? What was Dean _doing_ here?

"Hey man, what's u—"

Before Sam could finish his sentence, Dean bent forward, pushing Sam over onto his back and flat against the mattress, pressing them both flat until they were laying on top of one another, legs tucked together in an intimate tangle.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, his voice breathless and excited, contented and happy, before he lowered his mouth to Sam's.

Oh, oh god it was _so_ soft, that amazing mouth, once it met his, and Sam forgot absolutely everything but that exquisite sensation. After a few soft presses, Dean got right to it, and changing the angle of his head, slanted his mouth hot and perfect across his, lapping at the inside, tugging Sam's lips gently between his own, nipping at his bottom lip with playful little bites. Groaning, Sam sank further into the mattress and closed his arms tight around his brother, sliding his hands into his brother's soft hair and gripping the back of his head, pulling his mouth closer. It was hot, and soft, and sweet, despite their morning breath, and he couldn't seem to get enough of tasting his brother.

"God, Dean," he murmured when they broke apart to draw breath. Gazing up into his brother's gorgeous eyes, cupping his jaw with his giant hand (it was nearly the length of his head), Sam pressed sweet kisses to his cheeks, his lashes, his perfect freckled nose. "You're so damn beautiful." Then he took Dean's mouth again, gently tugging that sweet bottom lip into his mouth and laving it with his tongue, before subjecting it to small, delicate bites of his own. "So beautiful..." he sighed.

Dean was chuckling, returning every nudge and press of Sam's gentle, seeking mouth with his, smiling so sweetly in Sam's embrace that his own, less prominent dimples popped out at the sides of his mouth. _Cute as fucking button_ , Sam thought. _Badass, yes. Could kill a guy in a thousand different ways, double yes. But fuck—adorable too?_ Apparently so.

"Beautiful is what you say to a chick, Sam." Another sweet kiss. "You should say I'm hot. Or gorgeous. Like you are." And he then ducked his head and blushed. Actually blushed, Mr. Swagger himself, and Sam was so thrilled and charmed his heart felt like it was going to burst.

Now it was Sam's turn to laugh, his own smile widening, as he tucked his fingers beneath Dean's chin and nudged his face back up, so he could gaze into his brother's emerald eyes. So green and bright, a slight gold sheen to their depths.

_Huh. Gold?_

Frowning, Sam started to pull back from his brother, trying to focus, but his thoughts seemed to scatter so easily. There was something he needed to understand, or pay attention to, but it was gone the very second he tried to grasp it.

"I'm gorgeous?" he asked instead, enjoying this playful attention from his usually sarcastic and glib-tongued brother a little too much. "I thought I was an 'overgrown sasquatch,' " he teased, "so you always say."

Dean ducked his head again, and his uncharacteristic shyness was just so damn unexpected, ridiculously adorable, that Sam felt giddy with the feeling, and it seemed to grow and swell and surge within him until it crested, almost painfully. His whole body rose from the bed as his back arched sharply from the sensation and he gasped out a breath, falling back into the mattress a moment later, oddly winded. Dazed.

Unware of his brother's reaction, Dean began tracing the line of hair on Sam's chest with the tip of his finger. "Yeah. I know I do, but that's because I'm jealous." 

Sam's drumming pulse was starting to slow, yet he felt strangely exhausted, drained. "You are?" he found himself asking instead, still wondering what had just happened.

Dean nodded shyly.

Fucking _adorable._

"Yeah. You're the whole package, Sam. Like the fucking Male Ideal. You have _no_ idea how hot you are. Anybody could see it if they would stop starting at _me_ for two seconds. I mean--I know I'm...sort of a...'pretty boy'—"

(Dean grimaced at the word, and Sam could tell that the idea really bothered him). "But you're tall, dark and handsome. The classic trio. You've got an _amazing_ smile and those dim—" Dean broke off abruptly when his raised his eyes to his brother's face and noticed Sam's odd pallor, his shallow breathing. "Sammy!" He took hold of his brother's shoulders and shook him slightly. "Hey! What's wrong?"

_No, no, none of **that** , Sweet One._

Sam was shaking his head, looking confused, still breathing heavily though his color was starting to return. "I don't know...I feel strange. Like I just got hit in the chest with a hammer."

_No, you do not. Nothing is amiss, my Shadow._

"So do I," Dean admitted, though it seemed as if he had to force the words from his throat. He swallowed, and tried again, for some reason it was easier when he was looking into Sam's eyes, easier to focus, to think. What the hell was he doing here, in Sam's bed? They were kissing. Did they do that? And was he flirting, calling his brother gorgeous...what was...what...

_**NO**. You will not defy me! You _will_ feed me._

A flood of his former feeling washed over him then, seemed to come out of nowhere, a sudden rush of happy, shy affection. It was so powerful that it nearly overwhelmed him, was almost painful, and he forgot everything but _that_ one feeling, and sunk deeper into its thrall. Dean dropped his eyes from Sam's and felt his blush return, and he laughed softly and bit his lip. What was he saying? Oh yeah. "I love your smile, Sam. I wish I could see you smile all the time."

His lowered his fingers to his brother's face and started to trace the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, pressing the tip of one finger into the shadow of a dimple. "I love these. I hate it when you're unhappy. I hate to see you that way. I think it's _my_ fault, because I'm such a shit brother and I dragged you into this life."

Sam shook his head fervently and pulled Dean's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his fingers, his eyes soft and heated, wholly sincere. "Hey, hey, don't _do_ that. You beat yourself up over nothing all the time. You didn't drag me into anything."

"I didn't?" That wasn't the way he saw it. He was the one who came to Palo Alto that cool night, so long ago, and stood for hours outside his brother's dorm room, debating whether he should stay or go. He was the one who said that he wanted them to be a family again, and that he didn't want Sam to go back to school, back to his "normal" life the second they completed their quest to kill the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Sam had never really wanted any of this, and he was quick to remind Dean of that any chance he got.

But Sam was shaking his head, pressing passionate kisses to Dean's hand. "No, you didn't." "Come on, man, stop blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. I might not have wanted this in the beginning, but I want it now. I want _everything_ , as long as it's with you." His smile widened, "you can't talk me into anything I don't want to do, remember?" He tapped his temple. "Hard head, remember?

Dean laughed softly, then nodded, raising his knuckles to tap Sam softly against his broad forehead. "Hard as diamond," he teased.

"Like Fort Knox" Sam replied, now smiling wide enough for those dimples to pop.

They moved together, easy as breathing, until their mouths were joined again. It started slow, with gentle nudges and teasing licks, and Sam couldn't resist nipping softly at his brother's lush mouth, but after a beat it grew heated, their hands roaming over shoulders and sweeping over backs, and when Dean tangled his fingers into Sam's long, dark hair and pulled, Sam groaned and flipped Dean on his back, taking hold of his arms and stretching them over his head, pinning him by the wrists, putting Dean right where he wanted him.

"Woah, Nelly!" Dean exclaimed the moment Sam let go of his mouth to push himself up and loom over him, laughing at the heated look on his little brother's face. "Somebody's got a hair kink."

"You're the one with the hair kink, Dean." Sam taunted, his neck and chest bearing that tell-tale flush of arousal, and his hazel eyes, such a beautiful mix of gray, green, blue and amber, seemed to be drunk on the very sight of him. At that thought, Dean scoffed inwardly. There was no "seemed" about it. Of _course_ Sam was getting a sexual high off of him--he was fucking hot, and knew what he was doing, after all. Who wouldn't be blessed to be in his bed? Between the two of them, _he_ was the pro.

"Oh yeah?" Dean replied, sliding his hands smoothly and slowly down Sam's broad back before dipping under the covers to cup that _fantastic_ ass, (hey, he _had_ eyes, ya know). He gave that plump peach a squeeze and tugged his brother closer until their bellies were flush and their groins nice and tight, locked together. And _Dude_. Talk about a _big_ surprise.

"Looks like it's you that has the hair kink, Sammy," Dean teased softly, still squeezing that plump ass and grinding up against Sam's impressive hard on. "All the proof" he grunted as he pushed up against his brother, grinding his own erection against Sam's, because it was maddening, and perfect, and sweet, "is right here."

Sam gasped when Dean pushed up against him again, harder, his mouth falling open as he shuddered from the sensation of their rolling hips. The friction wasn't hard enough, and wouldn't be enough to get either of them there, but they were having too much fun with it, grinding against each other like this.

Sam bent close to his brother and leaned in for a kiss, which Dean accepted easily. After all, they'd been doing this all their lives, hadn't they? Ever since they reunited after Stanford, right?

Dean frowned. Wait, no, that wasn't right. Couldn't be. Sam didn't want him, had never wanted him the same way. Not like this, as they were now, soft and sweet and tangled together in bed. Something was _wrong_.

"Sammy" he muttered against his brother's mouth, trying to pull away from his increasingly fervent kisses. "Wait. This is wrong." There was some one, some _thing_ else here with them, and it was hurting Sam somehow. And he had to stop it.

 _ **NO, STOP! YOU MUST NOT DEFY ME!**_ Came the harsh command. And Dean jerked back from his brother, tried to pull himself away from the sudden loud clamor echoing in his head. He fought to open his eyes, to see beyond the pain and the noise sounding in his head to get to his brother, to warm him, to help him, or call out for his brother to save him.

But Sam was just as helpless, bent almost in half above him, holding his hands to his ears, his mouth open in a silent scream as he jerked from the force of the voice screaming inside of them.

 _YOU ARE MINE!_ She cried, and they could feel her anger at their resistance, their struggle to gain control. They gasped from the sharp burst of pain they both felt as her talons tore through their soul, each in turn, grabbing for hold, any hold, to stay connected at all costs.

How long the struggle continued, neither was aware. In time, they collapsed against each other, their skin glistening with sweat though each brother was shivering from the incredible cold, shaking from the numbing, freezing clutch of her fangs buried deep.

 _Go now, Sweet One_. she urged, once the two men no longer fought against her, their voices quiet, their anger stilled. _Go now and sleep_.

She needed to separate them, since together, they seemed better able to resist her thrall. Usually, with soulmates, it was the opposite. They were as one mind and one soul, hers to ravish. Yet with these two, these warriors, some resilient bit of magic protected them. Or at least her Dark One. He was different, somehow, deep within, in a manner she had never known or encountered before...

So for now, they needed to separate. She would continue to feast on the Sweet One; he would not, could not, resist her on his own. That's how she'd found him in the first place, when his heart and all it's glorious pain, pleasure and guilt caught her nose and woke her from her slumber. _Go now, _she urged sweetly, patiently, though she was ravenous and eager to feast. _Go now and rest, My Love._ __

____

____

She watched as he rose from the bed slowly, his eyes closed and his features slack, limbs loose and plaint under her careful direction. She walked him back to his room and saw him to his bed, straining to control him as far as she could, because _she_ was now draining fast. After the richness of her feast, they had fought her, and it had taken every iota of strength she had just stolen from them to subdue them, to pull them apart and dose them in her thrall. She could _not_ risk such failures again. The next time she tried to feed, she would need to exercise greater caution, subdue her hunger until she had firm control.

Otherwise she would never recover, and this was her only hope for life. For escape. She would not let them go.


	7. The Serpent is Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam woke suddenly. Before he had a chance to open his eyes, his whole body shuddered and jerked, his back arching sharply and then flattening, and then he fell back and sank into the mattress. One moment he was not aware and the next he was. It was a startling, painful sensation, but not as painful as the jagged throb he felt in the center of his chest. It was like something had reached in and torn out a thick, jagged piece of flesh, muscle and bone. Wary from exhaustion and confusion, he opened his eyes, blinking past the pain the sudden light brought to his temples, and blew out a sharp breath.
> 
>  _Something's here_ , he thought, and then-- _Dean...I've got to get to Dean._

Sam woke suddenly. Before he had a chance to open his eyes, his whole body shuddered and jerked, his back arching sharply and then flattening, and then he fell back and sank into the mattress. One moment he was not aware and the next he was. It was a startling, painful sensation, but not as painful as the jagged throb he felt in the center of his chest. It was like something had reached in and torn out a thick, jagged piece of flesh, muscle and bone. Wary from exhaustion and confusion, he opened his eyes, blinking past the pain the sudden light brought to his temples, and blew out a sharp breath.

 _Something's here_ , he thought, and then-- _Dean...I've got to get to Dean._

And then: _Fuck._

Now that he was attempting to move the pain was substantial indeed. He felt a spark of panic light in the center of his chest, right over the wound beneath it, which he looked for when he glanced down, startled beyond speech to see his flesh whole, unmarred, unbroken, because he could have sworn there was a ragged hole there, just beneath his anti-possession tattoo black and stark on his left pectoral. He stared for a moment more, incredulous, so certain there had been _some_ kind of wound there...

But then:

_Dean, oh god, **Dean** — the thought suddenly rushing in to flood his mind with a blind panic that started to rise up in his throat and choke him, because the last thing he clearly remembered was lying here in bed with Dean—_

__

__

_kissing him touching him_

But now his brother was gone. No where to be seen. Still, he looked over his shoulder and scanned the floor of the room for his brother's body ( _because he was dead, oh god, no, he was **DEAD**_ ) and he started to choke on his stuttered breaths, the black, hot tide of panic violently swelling within him. His brother was _not_ here. Where was he, Jesus, he **HAD** to find him. _My brother, got to find my broth—_

Then, at the periphery of his despair, he felt it.

 _It_.

 _Her_.

Searching for him, reaching out with long, cold sweeps of her senses like a blind woman with frigid hands, grasping in the dark. He felt her hunger, and her greed, and her eagerness to find him, and Sam summoned every bit of strength he possessed and clamped down on his panic. Responding to instinct, because somehow he knew he must, he forced himself to draw breath and empty his mind, to stifle the flame of his panic and then snuff it out. To build a wall.

_Nominative, Genitive, Dative, Accusative, Ablative._

_ego, nos, mei, nostrum, nostri, mihi, mi, nobis, me, nos, me, nobis_ rang like a chant in his head.

Her hands, her talons, reaching, seeking, grasping for him.

He swung his legs off the bed. _Sheets, white, sweat, kissing, **Dean**_ , but his brother's name brought panic, despair, sadness, love, and she stopped abruptly in her seeking movement and swung towards him, seeming to catch his scent, and started to rush forward—

No. He had to block her. Cold, the floor was cold, stand. Focus on things. On his feet, wobbly, boxers and sleep pants.

And then she stopped, confused, ravenous, indiscriminately searching, grasping. Blind.

 _Not today, bitch_ he allowed, but that was a mistake, because the words were like something Dean would say, his brother, he HAD to find his brother, if it wasn't too late.

_Dead, oh god, he was—_

_Tu, vos, tui, vestrum, vestri, vostrum, vostri, tibi, vobis, te, vos, te, vobis_ flooded through his mind, and he felt her grasp, felt her try to connect, and she could not, and wailed and cried in anger.

He kept up the mental chants while he grabbed his Taurus from his beneath his pillow (Dean wasn't the only one who slept with his gun) and tucked it beneath the waistband at his back. Cold, steel, pearl, 9mm. He opened his bedside table drawer, grabbing at the emergency supplies there, stuffing them into the pockets of his pajama pants.

She was circling—

_You need cooling Baby I'm not fooling I'm gonna send ya Back to schooling_

She circled, endlessly circled, confused, blind, unable to attach. But the Zeppelin was another mistake, because that was Dean's love (and his, by habit, by association) and the rush of love he felt when he thought of his brother started to crack the mental shield he held before him with every ounce of discipline he could muster.

He staggered out into the hallway, still eluding her, but by the skin of his teeth, switching to _love is like oxygen you get too much you get too high not enough and you're gonna die_

He held the words before him like a sword. Concentrated on the cold of concrete floor beneath his bare feet. Moving forward.

_love gets you high_

_Dean...I'm coming...hold on..._

Every step felt like a century, and age of movement. The cold fear that Dean was dead flew round his mind and heart like a raptor diving in for the kill, while his mental walls were cracking against the strain of his dampened feelings. In time, (too long too long) he was at Dean's door, and he moved leaden legs forward across the threshold, and gasped aloud when he saw—

_Oh god he's dead pale not breathing_

Dean, lying on his back, hands folded on his bare chest, lying like (the dead) Sleeping Beauty, because his skin was glowing like it was limned in gold, the fiery orange of sunset. His eyes were closed, long lashes resting fan-like over sharp cheek bones, which looked too hollow, too gaunt, to _fragile_ to belong to his amazing, badass big brother.

 _Dean no—_ **_DEAN—_**

His walls started to crumble when tears gathered in his eyes, struggling to move his heavy feet (growing heavier and heavier) across the floor to get to his brother's side, the black panic and despair spreading like an oil slick throughout his chest every time he drew a breath.

_No no no no no no please—_

And she was there, deadly and fierce. He felt her invasion like the cold slice of steel as it cut through his mind, and once she was tethered his panic expanded a thousand fold. He was alone, so alone, because Dean was dead. He had no one, no DEAN, no no—

He fought her with every breath, struggling to pull back from the fear that was ravaging his heart, wrapping around it like molten bands of steel, ever tightening.

 _Why do you fight me, Shadow? **How** can you?_ She was startled and very angry. He could tell, somehow, while she was trying to fuse with him, that she was shocked at his resistance. That she was also scared, because it was something unknown to her, in all the centuries of her existence. She was struggling to attach to him, like some kind of demonic leech, and though she had sunk in her teeth, she kept slipping away, frustrated.

 _I need you, let me,_ she begged.

 _Fuck off, Lady—_ He shot back.

But he was faltering, trying to move legs that would no longer move, legs as heavy as cement blocks, hundreds of pounds, straining against the drag. He wasn't getting any closer to Dean, in fact it seemed that he drew further and further away, his brother's (dead) prone body drawing back smaller and smaller into the distance. He was crying as he struggled to move forward; he felt like his legs were stuck in tar, and every attempt to pull his feet from the floor made the muscles in his legs scream in agony. He had to get to Dean, had to—

He fell forward, his knees hitting the cement tiles beneath with a sharp crack, and just before he blacked out, he pushed his hands beneath him to catch himself and spare his head. _Get out get out GET OUT GETOUT! ___

He chanted, and she pulled back in shock, slipping away a moment before he blacked out, collapsing to the floor.

  
  
~~*~~   
  


He woke, again, without a gradual transition from one state to the next. He opened his eyes and already had a wall in place.

_Sum Eram Ero Fui Fueram Fuero—_

He rose by degrees, pushing himself up from the floor, his throat, chest, and head aching like he'd been kicked in the face and dragged across the floor several times. He focused on the pain, and the chants, to keep her grasping, blind fingers away, to get to—

_don't think his name Est Erat Erit Fuit Fuerat Fuerit—_

his brother.

_Please please don't be—_

No, not that either—

_dead he's dead_

Finally, after untold time, he reached his brother's bedside. There he lay, still, pale, cold—

 _Estis Eratis Eritis_ and he reached shaking fingers upward to his brother's wrist, and lay his index and middle finger there.

_thump ------ thump --- thump ------thump_

Erratic, sluggish, but there. It was _there_.

But the relief he wanted to feel would not come, he would not let it—

_so please all you people don't you grieve for me the blood in my veins is black and I can't bleed I've suffered the pain and all I can face is the dark oh Lord quick is the beat of my heart quick is the beat of my heart_

_Your strange words and chants will not deter me, Shadow_ , she replied.

He let himself rest a moment, forehead pressed to the mattress, just beneath Dean's ribs, and with his fingers, still shaking, half numb, he reached for Dean's fingers and tangled then with his own. He was cold, so very very cold.

 _reoccurring symptoms answer the baleful howl bringing me dreams of darkness the doer of all that's foul_ , Sam thought.

_Is that your perception of me?_

Sam stood. He swayed for a moment on his feet, but he held on until his head stopped swimming. The Styx lyrics seemed to be working. He would not allow another thought or feeling to surface, focusing solely on the words alone.

As he did so, he bent and gently pulled his brother's legs sideways and over the side of the mattress, then slid both arms under his shoulders (he was so cold) and sat him upright. He stopped again, taking a moment to breathe, to simply hold Dean close to him, to allow himself one moment of respite from the storm of her circling rage.

Dean was deathly pale, bruises under his eyes, the skin fragile, thin, shadowed with purple. His freckles stood out in sharp relief against his pallid cheeks, but his mouth—oh, his exquisite mouth, was red and swollen, as if from a million gentle, passionate kisses, and Sam ached for his brother. In the midst of danger, under attack from some Sauron-like demonic chick, Sam still felt that tender draw to his brother, wanting him, needing him.

_I suppose you can do that again, all that shameless groping and mouthing each other...such sweetness and sin, brother and brother..._

_the Serpent is rising uncoiling in your spine bringing you light from the depths of your mind_ , Sam chanted.

_I have known lovers like you in all my wanderings, even those related by blood. But never warriors, never brothers in arms..._

_Dire Straits Brothers in Arms_

"Oh yeah?" Sam said aloud. "Well you're not gonna get these brothers, Lady."

_Did you hear me, Shadow? Take him, if you want him. I will feast on your desire._

Sam pulled back from his brother, slowly, and gently tapped at his face, but he would not stir from his coma-like slumber, his eyes would not open. Sam reached into his pocket to grab at anything there that would be of aid. The magics and talismans he took from his nightstand. He felt something small, and warm to the touch, bound on a leather string. He pulled that from his pocket and draped it over Dean's neck and let it fall to his bare chest. Dean was bare of all clothes except a pair of black boxers, his toes and the graceful arch of his bare feet pale and delicate-looking next to the tan of his legs and the muscled angles of his flat stomach, which was tensing and relaxing with shallow, but steady breaths.

Sam knelt close to the floor, bending and lifting from the knees, pulling his brother up and over his back in a fireman's carry. He staggered a bit beneath Dean's helpless weight, fighting to stay upright and keep the Sauron-Chick away. He turned and began to walk. His very heartbeat a painful throb with each agonizing step forward and out. Down the hall, holding his brother secure over his shoulders as he kept up the Styx chanting:

_And I know, yes I know He was a man of miracles Riding golden meteorites Ruler of distant galaxies Born of the northern lights Of the northern lights—_

_You cannot escape me, Shadow. Play your petty games with words, it matters not. I will have you, and him, BOTH of you, in time. My Savory and Sweet..._

Sam was finally in the garage, and the bold, black, gleaming beauty of Baby was just beyond. He got to the passenger side, opened the door and gently lay his brother inside. It took all his strength to slam the door, to drag himself over to the driver's side by holding on to her ebony hood. _Help me, Baby_ he thought, and _help me god_ and he fought the Sauron Chick's pull for every step he took to the door. His hand fell hot and desperate on the handle, which he dragged open, and he fell gracelessly inside, tugging the door closed behind him.

And then suddenly, once he was enclosed within Baby's interior, he felt the demon slip even further away. It was like, somehow, surrounded by the familiar smell of leather, Dean, himself, and he and his brother combined, the scent grounded him, because it cleared his head immediately. Centered him. He suddenly felt safe, for the first time since this attack, from the thing chasing after them. He glanced over at his brother, felt a pang when he noted his brother's pale exhuastion, and reached past him to the glove compartment in front of him for the spare set of keys Dean kept stashed there—

Then shoved them into the ignition, wincing, because Dean was going to KILL him for that, but he needed to get them out right the fuck _now_. She was blind, and did not know where they were or what they doing,so he needed to get them away before she cottoned on to their location. He cranked the ignition, and Baby started with her usual metallic roar. Sam sighed in relief, letting the feeling flood through him, briefly, but it was a mistake because as soon as he let his guard relax, as soon as he allowed one moment of relief, she came running for them.

_Sucks to be you—_

he snapped internally, directing his anger, hatred and determination in her direction, and pulled down the driver's side visor for the garage door remote and pressing the button.

_No! what are you DOING? Where are you GOING?_

The garage door opened with sloth-like slowness, rising by agonizing degrees. How had he never noticed that it was so mother fucking SLOW?

_I will find you!_

_Come on, you fucker!_ Sam was pounding his hands on the steering wheel, watching the garage door creep upward like it was mired in molasses.

_I will drain you DRY!_

"Fuck off," Sam muttered, waiting, waiting and waiting for the door to rise enough to floor it and get the hell out of there. _Let's get on down To the main attraction With a little less talk And a lot more action—_

She was screaming, circling, coming closer—

And finally, the door was at mid point. Sam wanted to wait for it to rise higher, but beside him, Dean was starting to pant, groan with pain, jerk as if he were a rag doll someone was playing with. That _she_ was playing with.

_Is this who you treasure so dearly, Shadow? This pure, Sweet One? His golden heart, his love, his life. So delicious. I will eat it all and leave you nothing but the husk of him. I will pull every beloved lash from his eyes and gnaw every freckle from his skin, then pop his pretty pretty eyes like grapes...and make you watch him die by degrees—_

Sam counted to three, wincing in anticipation, and then floored it, his bare foot pressing the accelerator right to the floor.

Baby sprang forward like a panther, flashing silver and black and silver under the fluorescent lights, tires squealing and smoke uncoiling from the drag and release of her tires.

Jesus Christ, Dean was going to kill him in a thousand painful ways.

Their big Black Lady shot forward in a haze of smoke, rushing under the open garage door with a hairsbreadth clearance, a steel screech sounding from her roof, and Sam saw sparks fly.

No, see. Killing was too _good_ for him. Dean was going to TORTURE him.

Sauron-Chick was screaming, gnashing, in pain and anger, reaching for them, and could not reach, falling away.

Their Black Lady rushed onward, spitting up mud, leaves and grit behind her. Swinging one way, then another, Sam holding on to her steering wheel for dear life, his foot glued to the floor. Dean was turning blue.

Baby raced on, the trees and the red blush of dawn rushing past her and her cargo as Sam kept his foot glued to the floor, fighting to stay awake, to keep upright, to save Dean, his brother. His beloved, yes, _beloved_ brother. _Hold on, Dean._

He steered Baby through all the back roads and old farm routes, never once letting up on the gas, and she tore like holy hell through fields and old dirt roads, Sam calming with every inch of distance he put between them and the bunker. 

Looking at Dean, back to the road, and back to Dean, Sam was crying and shaking with exhaustion. He finally saw the exit for route 59 north to I 70, and tore his arm to the side in a sharp turn to get her going the way he needed to go. His heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears, he finally saw the highway, still mostly empty, but beginning to fill with traffic. All those innocent, oblivious people on their morning commute.

Dawn was breaking, Sam realized with a touch of shock. People and cars were emerging, the world was waking up. Morning traffic meant cops. He had to slow down. _Had_ to.

And though it was painful, and ran against every ounce of his will, Sam eased his foot from the pedal and eased Baby down to a moderate rush along the blacktop, as if they were NOT fleeing for their lives, practically naked and smelling un-showered and sweat soaked, like ranch hands on a bender. But there was no time to care about that, or anything else but putting space and distance between them and the bunker. 

His heart still racing, thudding a jack hammer rhythm in his throat, he gently tugged his brother down and towards his lap, resting his head there and sweeping his dark, gleaming hair, sweat soaked and flat, away from his face, unconsciously caressing the sharp but delicate lines of his features beneath his shaking hand. The adrenaline crash was coming, and he needed to get them off the road and indoors somewhere soon.

 _Hold on, Dean._ He begged.

_Please._


	8. Lay-Zee Daze Are Here Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam sighed as he cut the ignition and sat back further into the bench seat, closing his eyes and allowing himself a moment of quiet, nothingness, and safety. Now that he had some distance from Lawrence, and Dean was sleeping soundly tucked to his side, he couldn't understand or imagine why he felt such panic after waking that morning, which had fueled his breakneck exit from the bunker. He couldn't understand why he hadn't stood his ground and fought her off. The bunker was well stocked with weapons and magic, and he and Dean had been in worse situations, backs to the wall, facing death, and still fought their way out. So what the fuck had happened?

About an hour outside of Lawrence, Sam merged off the I-70 and took a back road through the farmland and pulled over when he found a wooded area with some privacy.

Dean was sleeping, head still cradled in his lap, breathing softly. Sam knew it was _true_ slumber now, and not the near-death coma it had been before, because every now and then Dean murmured something intelligible and sleep-smothered, gently stirring to seek a better angle for his head, burrowing closer to his brother. At one point, he'd turned over and buried his face in Sam's bare stomach, nose pressed to belly, snoring softly.

Sam sighed as he cut the ignition and sat back further into the bench seat, closing his eyes and allowing himself a moment of quiet, nothingness, and safety. Now that he had some distance from Lawrence, and Dean was sleeping soundly tucked to his side, he couldn't understand or imagine why he'd felt such panic after waking that morning, or what, exactly, had fueled his breakneck exit from the bunker. Why he hadn't stood his ground and fought her off? The bunker was well stocked with weapons and magic, and he and Dean had been in worse situations, backs to the wall, facing death, and still fought their way out. So what the fuck had happened?

But trying to answer that wasn't important right now. What was important was finding a place to hole out for a while and regroup. Work up a plan to get back into their bunker and shut this bitch down. Reclaim their fucking home. But first he had to make sure Dean was okay. This thing, whatever it was, was powerful enough to put Dean at the brink of death, and then go for _him_ while she was at it. A twofer. A double dipper.

Eyes closed, focused on Dean's breathing (and he didn't realize that as he did so he was synchronizing his own breath to match his brother's) Sam was at the brink of sleep himself. Exhausted, sweat-stained, barely clothed, he and his brother were melting into the leather; this wasn't the time for sleep. He forced himself to open his eyes and stay awake, and took stock. The morning sun had crested the horizon and it was already pretty hot inside the car, likely to get hotter as the day progressed. They couldn't stay here, much less sleep.

So Sam reluctantly moved Dean away from him and gently repositioned him against the passenger side (a frown creasing the corners of his mouth when Sam pushed him away) and pulled the keys from the ignition, got out of the car and walked to the trunk, keys in hand.

The dry grass was sharp and warm beneath his bare feet as he popped the trunk, pulling out his and Dean's emergency duffle bags. He rummaged around in Dean's and pulled out a t-shirt (Metallica) and jeans, a pair of hiking boots. Though he was loathe to dress his brother or himself in clean clothes, since they were both pretty filthy by this point with two day's worth of sweat, strain, dust and running for their lives, there was no help for it. Keys in one hand and Dean's clothes in the other, Sam made his way to the passenger door and unlocked it, tucking the keys into his pocket and placing Dean's clothes on the scarred roof (good god, Dean was going to _beat_ his ass for that) and popped open the door. Dean was laying back in the same position Sam left him, but he frowned again when the cooler air outside of the car rushed in when Sam opened the door, turning his head away from him, muttering something that sounded grumpy and annoyed.

Smiling softly, (Dean always behaved like a little boy when he was sleepy) Sam reached in, and cradling Dean's head, pulled his brother's legs out from the footwell and over the open edge of the bench seat until Dean’s pale toes swept against the grass beneath. He bent inside and lay his brother back flat against the seat, his hand automatically and unconsciously cupping his brother's face and tracing the path of his cheekbone, the scattered freckles there, before he pulled away and knelt in the grass at his brother's feet.

_Always knew you'd sink to your knees for me sooner or later, Sammy. Just like the little bitch I always said you were._

Smirking, Sam started to fit one pale foot into Dean's faded jeans, noting again how delicate the arch and ankle bones looked cradled in his darker hand (which was huge by comparison) beguiled by the smattering of freckles on his lower legs. He'd never noticed those before.

"Oh please," he answered, nothing witness to his vocalizations but the birds, the clouds, and a still-slumbering brother. "I'm more butch than you'll ever be, Princess." Now for the other foot. "Always said you were overcompensating," he reminded Sleeping Beauty. "'Cause no one's _that_ butch." Tugging the jeans over slender legs (Dean had more than enough muscle on him for the ass-kicking they did on a regular basis, but he was still somehow lean and lithe in proportion) and lamentably covering up those caramel freckles. That done, Sam rose up and kept tugging his jeans upwards, over the soft, tempting swell of his brother's cock covered in black silk boxers. Fucking sexy. But then, everything Dean wore or did or _was_ , was fucking sexy.

_Oh yeah, Sasquatch? Overcompensating, huh? Looks like I'm not the one drooling over another guy's package._

Chuckling, Sam finally managed to tug the waistband of Dean's jeans over his hips and up to his flat, sparsely furred stomach. He rested his hand there for a moment, the better to feel the soothing rise and fall of Dean's chest as he breathed.

"Whatever, dude. I'm not the one wearing silk underwear." _Which was hot as **fuck** , by the way_.

Kneeling in the grass, his brother half dressed and sprawled out on the seat, vulnerable and unconscious, Sam felt tears prick at his eyes. He bent forward and lay his head on Dean's stomach, pushing his nose against the light dusting of hair and drawing a deep, shuddery breath. "Almost lost you, man," he whispered, his shaking hands stroking Dean's lean hips and torso restlessly, anxiously, grateful he was still warm and alive. "You would think with the number of times it's happened, I'd be fucking used to it already."

But he wasn't, and would never simply _accept_ Dean's death. Because it was _Dean_. And Dean meant more to him than anything, ever.

Crying softly, Sam pressed a kiss to Dean's stomach, then another, flooded with relief that his brother was here and still breathing. A moment later, her felt a tentative touch at the back of his head, and then Dean's fingers carding through his tangled hair, burying deep. Sam paused, holding his breath, hardly daring to move when he felt Dean tug at the back of his head in an impatient 'come 'ere' gesture, and smiling softly, his face heating, he pressed another kiss to Dean's stomach, and then another, and another.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, and "love that. Don't stop."

Sam's heart started to race, his throat dry, and he raised his head to catch Dean's eyes—

Only to see that he was still fast asleep, or in semi-sleep at least, because he was moving in a way that belied true unconsciousness, his eyes were closed and his features slack with oblivion, but his movements more animated that before. "Don't stop, baby." He whispered, tugging at the back of Sam's head. "Come on, honey, suck me."

Sam felt jealousy, frigid and hard, wash over him. He pulled back, loosening his grip on Dean's hipbones. He should have known. Dean wasn't awake or aware but dreaming, having some porn-y dream about some chick going down on him, and wasn't aware that it was _Sam's_ mouth on his flesh. He didn't want Sam in that way, as was quickly becoming obvious. After all, all of his actions of the previous two days were now in question, given the psychic influence of that evil...bitch, thing, demon—whatever. How did he know exactly _when_ that thing got its hooks into Dean, after all? It could have been there from the beginning, that first night when he came back from the Farmer's market and the long walk into Lawrence. Maybe even before. He was so certain that Dean had responded willingly and naturally to his amateur seduction, but now there was room for doubt. How could he trust what had happened then knowing what he did now?

Pulling back, wiping at his eyes, Sam got back to the business of dressing his brother. This is where it ended, apparently, the experiments and the hopeful teasing and experiments. He really should have known better than to think that the feelings between them were anything more than brotherly. Perhaps they were not _normal_ normal, but they certainly weren't what he hoped for, either.

Resolved, Sam set about dressing his brother and himself, checking their stores for emergency cash and new credit cards, and then tucked himself back into Baby and started her up. He knew from past experience that there was a Lay-Zee Daze motel nearby, and that's where he pointed the car, refusing to think anything more about his brother, and their (he sneered internally) "relationship."

  
  
~~ ** ~~  
  


Dean was dreaming. Always dreaming, of sexy things. Lots of kissing and suckling, caressing and stroking. sometimes a woman, more often a man. A hard body, like his own. But bigger. Taller. Dark-haired...

Yet in the midst of these he knew, somehow, down in his bones, that something was wrong. That he was hurting pretty bad from something that had got a hold of him, was _feeding_ on him. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did, and was certain of it; yet he was so exhausted he couldn't summon any anger about it. In fact, he wasn't sure what he was feeling at all. He felt curiously numbed, empty, as if he were just a bag of bones and old blood, wasted muscle.

He jerked awake, pulse racing, and he was so cold, so cold. As he opened his eyes he wasn't surprised to find that he was in Baby (he could smell leather and blacktop and steel) but he was surprised to see that he was on the passenger side, or "Sammy's side," as he thought of it. Blinking against the brightness, grimacing at the sweat that was pooling at his back (despite his inner chill) that was practically gluing him to the seat, he unpeeled himself from the leather and looked around, took stock to get a bead on the situation. 

He was in Baby, of course, so that was of The Good. He was hurt all over, like something had taken him and beat the shit out of him and then wiped the floor with him afterwards. His head felt like he had a hangover, but it didn't have an alcohol induced feel. More like a headache from pure exhaustion. And while he wasn't one to think in these terms, it was also like the aftermath of a psychic invasion or a soul possession. Something had been in his head that didn't belong there, knocking around in his gray matter. But it, or her? Or whatever it was, was gone now, and they were on the road, somewhere (how did he get here?) and he couldn't remember the drive, or leaving the bunker. Where _was_ here, in fact?

Dean saw the sign for Route 32 and the Kansas Turnpike, and a familiar set of small cabins. _Lay-zee Daze_ , the blue and purple signage boasted, and Dean smirked, thinking back on a few memorable nights he'd spent here at this motel with a partner or two. There was that blonde that had a _talented_ mouth, and that smoking brunette that could go _all_ night...

Speaking of smoking brunettes with stamina, where was Sam?

He glanced over at the check-in office, and relaxed immediately when he saw his familiar broad back and messy hair (so long, and thick, and soft--he could _feel_ it so clearly, of a sudden, like a phantom memory embedded in his fingers). That meant Sam was booking them a room.

Which, now that he thought about it, was something of a shock. In fact, once Dean realized that he couldn't remember anything much of the past day or...so? He felt his unease increase exponentially. What day _was_ it?

He dug into his pocket for his phone and came up empty. His brows rose in shock, then knocked up even higher when he noted he was wearing his "emergency" clothing. His, as he liked to joke with Sam, _Shit's-Hit-The Fan_ Ensemble. And dude, he wasn't wearing socks, (which made his feet itch) and he (took a tentative sniff) smelled like he hadn't bathed in a month. _Phew!_

The bell above the door jangled as Sam emerged, and without understanding why, Dean found himself closing his eyes and falling back to the seat, affecting sleep. He knew Sam wouldn't buy his pseudo-torpor if he kept it up for long, (Sam could tell when he was faking it) so he decided he would "wake" when Sam came back to the car.

But after several long moments, when that didn't happen, Dean cracked open an eye and peered over in Sam's general direction. He was taken aback to see him standing near Baby's hood, head hanging down like someone had just killed his dog, big shoulders curved inward. And was he... _crying_?

When Sam turned toward him he was quick to close his eyes again, feeling stupid acting like some teenager spying on brother, but still hanging on the idea that he had to stay out of it for now, since Sam seemed to be processing some major trauma. Besides, it was only for a few seconds more, when he would "wake" officially...

The driver's side door opened softly, with such care Dean was truly impressed (because Sam tended to take a hard hand with Baby), but then he realized that Sam was likely being gentle because he thought that Dean was still asleep. Once seated, he blew out a sigh that was definitely of the Depressed-As-Shit variety, and then started the car. He drove them a little ways back to one of the more remote cabins, bringing Baby to a squealing stop in front of Cabin 10 (brake pads needed tending-to). 

He waited, weirdly tense, until Sam cut off the engine and left the car, popping open the trunk to grab their gear. After a moment, he was coming round again and Dean watched him through slit eyes as he unlocked the cabin door, disappear inside for a spell, and then come back out.

He closed his eyes again and waited.

Once more, with the gentle touch of a lover, (because Baby deserved no less, of course) Sam opened the passenger door and then reached in for his brother. Dean was startled still more when his brother unceremoniously pulled his legs out from the car, then bent down and scooped him up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. (And somehow, this seemed wayyyy too familiar, like it had happened recently—and a LOT—), the breath knocked out of him as Sam's shoulder knocked into his solar plexus. He couldn't help a small groan at the sensation.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam replied in an abstract manner, even slapped him on the butt like he was patting a stray dog or something, "Got to get you into the room and bedded down, buddy."

Buddy?

The fuck. _Buddy_?

Time to "wake up." He needed some of his brother's particular brand of comfort for the injuries he'd sustained. It was what they did after shit went down and one (or both) of them was hurt. They got the motel room, then they went inside and looked each other over with gentle eyes and reverent hands, soft words and sometimes taunt reprimands. The usual bitch 'n Jerk. Sammy. Dean.

Most times Sam would rebuke him for being so careless, looking as wounded emotionally as Dean was physically (and vice versa when it was Sam who was hurt) and right now all that sounded really great, and he actually needed it, if he were honest with himself. "Cause it was better than Vicodin. Refusing to analyze it any further, Dean went for the weak and pathetic act, the better to provoke Sam's sympathy, and get to the tender doings.

"S-sam?" he slurred, calling on his best acting skills (which were stellar, thank you) stirring weakly against his brother's hold. "Sammy?"

"I've got you, Dean," came the quick reply. Strong, sure, steady, and yet somehow...flat. Not like Post-Hunt Sam at all. More like mother-fucking _generic_ reassurance, the kind you give to people you don't care about. Fuck that noise.

"Sammy? what's..." he tried it again, making his voice weaker, extra pathetic, threw in a soft groan of pain (which wasn't entirely faked) as well. "W-what's going on?"

"Questions later, Dean," Mr. Robot replied, lowering him to the bed furthest from the door. Dean was about to protest, (he _always_ took the bed between Sam and the door) but couldn't get a word out because Sam had already turned away from him without a glance and walked back out to the car.

 _The. Fuck._ Dean thought, nonplussed, feeling like something very, very wrong was going on here. While the salt lines were important, and their first concern, once that was done it was all about the two of them, usually. Yet aside for than, his lack of memory was troubling, and he was eager to get to the bottom of that issue as soon as he could, it was just that this...weird Sammy flatness and uncharacteristic unconcern was creeping him ou—

 _Shit. Soulless._ Came the thought, _was he **soulless** again_? Dean was already attempting to gain his feet and take _some_ kind of action when Sam came back in and shut the door behind him. He immediately set about warding the room and laying salt lines, didn't even _glance_ in Dean's general direction, and his alarm rose to new heights. Shittin' son-of-a-bitch, he could _not_ deal with a soulless Sam again. Dude was creepy. And dangerous.

But just as he got his feet under him, Dean paused, calculating, a little unsteady on his feet after being out for so long (felt like years). What exactly was he going to do here? He had no options: there was no test or magic that he could perform at this very moment that would prove to him whether Sam had a soul or not. Nothing within reach, at any rate. He had nothing weapon-wise that he could get to before Sam would get there first, and he sure as shit didn't have the strength to fight a kitten, let alone 6 "4 of Sasquatch.

So he sat down, back to the wall, eyes narrowed as he watched Sam (or _Not_ Sam) finish laying the salt lines and checking for any potential points of entry. He was still thinking of making a desperate dive for the weapons duffle anyway when Sam stopped at the sink of the little kitchenette, head hung low, heaved another sigh, and started to cry quietly.

God, it shouldn't have, but Sam's tears made Dean relax immediately, suddenly irrationally _happy_ that Sam was crying. There was the proof, ladies and gents, right before his very eyes. Sam, _crying_. Soulless Sam never shed a tear for anything or anybody. He was a stone cold bastard to the core. And while Dean wasn't positively certain that soulless humans were incapable of crying, he took this as the first sign of something good in this troubling situation.

Acting on reflex, because he never could stand to see Sam cry, he walked slowly over to his brother where he stood at the sink, lay a hand on Sam's shoulder—

And was nearly thrown into the opposite wall when Sam spun on his heel, eyes sharp and cold, and twisted his arm behind his back, turning them both until Dean was pinned helpless to the sink. His brother's sasquatch body pinning him there tight and fast, the breath knocked from his lungs.

"Let him _go_ , bitch!" Sam snarled, twisting his arm until it flashed white hot with pain.

"SAM," Dean hollered, "The _fuck_! It's ME you ass! Let me GO." 

Sam stopped the twisting, but just barely, then he gripped Dean's jaw in his hand and turned his head toward his, searching his face. "Show me your eyes, and then we'll see if I let you go, you fuck."

Despite his pain and incredulity, Dean was impressed, and damn proud of his brother's tough-assery here. (And maybe a little turned on, if he were honest. And though he didn't have enough energy to even summon up a semi at present, it was the _thought_ that counted.)

"Sam! Come on!"

"Look me in the eyes!" His brother demanded.

Dean complied, turning his gaze to meet Sam's head-on, frowning in confusion at this rather specific request, until he remembered that a lot of the monsters they hunted tended to show their nature in the eyes. Silver for shifters and lycanthropes, blue for Djinn, green for poltergeists; a veritable rainbow of monster alarm lights...

"Sammy—it's me," he said, gently, looking into his brother's eyes, which were red-rimmed and lit with the gleam of ordinary, human tears, and he lay quiet and still in his brother's grasp as those same eyes, a galaxy of green, gray, blue and amber, held his steady for several heartbeats. After a long moment, when Sam apparently didn't see whatever sign he was looking for, he dropped his hold on Dean immediately and stepped away. Didn't even budge when Dean staggered a bit from the abrupt release, didn't slide a hand under his elbow to steady him or help him stand...

Yeah, _that_ shit was weird, and so not Sammy, but now that he'd seen tears it didn't alarm him any more than anything else about this fucked up situation.

"Sam—" he started, pausing to swallow, "what happened? How did we get here?"

Sam shifted on his feet, mouth in a thin line. "What do you remember?"

"Not much," he answered, "mainly the bunker. And coming to tell you about lunch..." he paused, thinking about later that evening, when Sam came back late, and he could have _sworn_ Sam made a pass at him. Had hands on him with intent. But that couldn't be right, could it?

"That all you remember?"

 _No_.

"Yeah...just...coming to you in the war room and telling you lunch was ready..."

"And nothing else?"

_Yeah. I think you hit on me. Or I wanted you to._

"No, man." he replied, reluctant to mention the rest, (because perv-y shit was his damage, see, not Sam's). "And then you left."

"I left—and that's the last thing you remember?"

 _No_.

"Yes."

"Okay," Sam said, turning his back to Dean to run his hands through his hair and ruminate on that information. "I think that's a good starting point for your possible possession. I'm not certain, but I thin—"

"Possession?" Dean repeated incredulously, interrupting his brother's explanation. "What do you mean, _possession_?"

Sam waved a hand at him, distracted. "For lack of a better term, Dean. Because I don't know exactly what it was. This chick was more...telepathic in her method of attack." 

"Chick?" And even though it probably wasn't the time for it, Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively. It was well established that he was a horn dog, after all, and that meant that sometimes he had to keep up appearances. For the sake of his brand, ya know? "Was she hot?"

But Sam ignored him, tapped at his temple, "Yeah. She was all mental, at least it seemed like it, like she was using mind control, and it seemed like she had a hold on _you_ specifically..."

"That's because I'm a chick-magnet, Sammy," he tried again, hoping to get a response out of his brother. 

Nope. Nada. Again with the weird ignore shit, not even a bitch face.

 _Huh_.

"A hold on _you,_ " Sam barreled on, "to the point of physically and psychically controlling you. And it was really affecting you. Making you say and do and think things that weren't...you..."

Dean's brows shot straight into his hairline. “ _Dude_ " he said, horrified (and yes, once again, weirdly turned on) "what...things?"

Sam again waved a hand, dropping his eyes from his brother. "Nothing. You set traps and stuff. For me. Like you were convinced I was the one that was possessed."

"I did?" Sounded like him. He was always ready to throw down and was pretty bad ass about it.

"Yeah." But that certainly wasn't _all_ , Dean could tell. "I think she was trying to set us against each other."

Huh.

"And that's it? She just made me go all 'Xenomorph' on you?"

"Yeah..." Sam answered, but it was, again, weirdly hedgy and certainly not the _entire_ truth. Seems like they were both holding some things back. And that was, again, of the Very Weird.

See, Dean kept his secrets close to the vest. He was long accustomed to his inappropriate desire for Sam, for instance. He buried that shit deep and got the hell on with life. So he was used to the odd resurgence here and there of a steamy thought or two when it came to his baby brother, along with his automatic denial and repression. Rinse, lather, repeat. But Sam now—Sam was an open book. He couldn't keep secrets to save his life. His truth came out in every word, gesture, and action. Subterfuge didn't sit right on Sam.

But whatever his brother was currently hiding was something all together different, and for some reason, it had an almost...sexual shame to it. He could just tell. Maybe it had something to do with his past behaviors with demons. Like the blood drinking, or god forbid, fucking them. So wait, did he _fuck_ this chick?

"Did you fuck her?" Dean blurted out, cursing his runaway mouth the moment he said it. God _dammit_. Not the time, dumbass.

Now _that_ earned him a bitch face, and Sam turned and leveled it on him. A doozy of a one, too, because Dean would feel _that_ burn in the motherfucking Arctic.

"No, Dean." He bit out, "I didn't _fuck_ her. If anyone was getting fucked, it was _you_."

"Geeze, Sammy," Dean began, "No need to get all—"

"She was _killing you_ , Dean. Whatever she was doing, it was like she was draining the life from you the longer she had control of you. You were pale, and so still, and I couldn't find you at first. Couldn't _reach_ you—"

Sam broke off, his voice cracking hoarse and sibilant, the tears returning to his eyes. "I tried so hard, but I couldn't _reach—_

Oh, _damn_ , it made sense now. His brother had been through the mill, sounded like, thinking his brother was dying, and here he was trying to crack jokes about women, and ask stupid accusatory questions like _he'd_ never made any mistakes...

He was an ass. Bona fide.

Cause lord knew that Dean had been stuck on the end of _that_ knife enough to know that it was a hell like no other. Sam missing, in danger, with no way to find him and possibly dead was the worst fucking hell he'd ever experienced. And here he was tryin to automatically when he wasn't accusing Sam of fucking a monster.

_What a dick, Winchester._

"Sam..." he began, "I'm sorry, okay—" moving forward to reach for his brother, offer a hug, reassurance, anything, only to pause in shock when Sam shook his head and stepped away from his reach and then further back, hastily wiping a tear from his eye.

"Now's not the time for that, Dean," he stated, (and when the fuck was that ever true for them?) "I'm exhausted, and I can't think straight. We'll talk about this later. I'm gonna shower."

And then fuck, easy as you please, Sam turned his back on him ( _again_ ) and tore off his shirt and started to unbuckle his pants, stripping in front of his brother like it was something they did everyday. (Which, it was, kind of, but his whole nonchalant demeanor was...odd). Once nude Sam made his way to the bathroom. "I'll be out in a sec, then you can go if you want," he said over his shoulder, and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Dean heard the water start a second later, and stood there a good while, completely nonplussed at these developments, and feeling pretty ashamed of himself to boot. A post-emergency hug wasn't _necessary_ or some shit, and it's not like he was mandated to comfort his brother when he was distressed or something, and vice-versa, but that was what they did. That was their thing. Hugs and barely concealed tears and shit. They were emotional, okay? Especially when it came to brother-related, shit-I-almost-lost-you, trauma. But Sam was all over the place emotionally. Like, what the fuck was with this back and forth bullshit? First he was indifferent, then he was sad, then he was angry, then he was back to chilling bastard mode. What was going on?

The sound of water falling softly (Lay-Zee Daze had shit water pressure) seemed to trigger a memory buried somewhere deep in his mind, because he could suddenly picture Sam completely naked. Could see so clearly those long, _fantastic_ legs stretching for miles, that lean body, corded with muscle, glistening wet. And this wasn't like the usual, half-remembered, dated version of Naked Sammy that he often pondered over, no. This was HD Naked Sammy, like just yesterday he'd had eyeballs all over his brother, naked in the shower. But that couldn't be right, could it? 

And lord, lord, it was such a clear image, too, with perfect sound. He could even feel the humidity of the shower as Sam hummed a song under his breath while he bathed.

Usually, in no time flat the contemplation of his baby brother in the raw was all it took to pop a mini cock stand, but there was nothing down below but the _suggestion_ of lust.

"Motherfucking bitch broke my _dick_ ," Dean groused, and he felt the beginnings of anger, but it didn't blossom into the true rage it should be, and that was alarming all on it's own. Why was he having such trouble feeling his feelings all of a sudden? It was like his heart was soaked in whiskey, or was on deep-freeze or something, while Gigantor over there was probably crying in the show—

A sudden spark of memory flashed bright and clear. He remembered reading something similar in Dad's journal once, something like what he and Sam were experiencing. Moving quickly, now that he was focused on an actual idea instead of standing there dumbly trying to mentally jerk off to the idea of his naked brother, Dean searched their supplies bag and sought out his father's journal. Turning pages, he was soon caught fast in his pursuit, in full-on hunting mode when Sam finally emerged from the shower. He was dressed in pajamas, sadly, covered from head to toe in disappointingly modest fashion.

"Dean, what's up?" he asked, soon as he caught sight of his brother's restless agitation. "What's going on?"

Turning to his brother, Dean brandished Dad's journal in Sam's direction, "I got it, Sam. I know what's after us."

"You do? What is it?"

"It's a Phagus, Sam. An eater or consumer. In this case, a Motophagus."

"Motophagus," Sam repeated softly, and then nodded slowly as it dawned in him, and everything that had happened started to fit together. Yes, it made sense now. It _all_ made sense.

"What we have, Sam, is an Eater. An _Emotions-Eater_."


	9. Together, alone...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean were seated at the rickety kitchenette table, heads bent towards each other, knees brushing underneath, bare feet and toes touching and retreating, touching again, as they poured over their father's thread-like scrawl and shorthand.

_Her Warriors were far away—so far. Too distant for her to reach, to connect, though she tried. Yet that in itself was a risk, for every time she attempted to reach beyond her prison, slowly crumbling but still intact enough to keep her wholly trapped, she withered, her precious stolen energy draining with every attempt to free herself, to find them. She could not risk losing everything she had gained, all the rich memories and feelings and life energy she'd taken from the Sweet One, so she stopped, and waited, alone in the dark, for their return..._

  
  
~~ ** ~~  
  


Sam and Dean were seated at the rickety kitchenette table, heads bent towards each other, knees brushing underneath, bare feet and toes touching and retreating, touching again, as they poured over their father's thread-like scrawl and shorthand.

Alone as they were, yet complete in their limited company, they weren't aware of the tableau they created; two people moving in perfect sync with one another, their hands connecting and retreating, their bodies, limbs and eyes meeting and separating like the flow of tides.

The light fixture overhead, though feeble and yellowed with age, cast a warm halo over their heads, the light flashing gold in the short, spiky strands of Dean's hair, while casting Sam's in deep, burning chestnut. This way of being, for them, was as easy and as simple as breathing. The product of many years together, alone. Always alone, but never _lonely_.

The worn pages of their father's work, life and obsession was held between them with sacred hands, for it was their bible. After years of reading and re-reading their father's copious notes, they'd developed a shorthand of their own when they caught each other up on the specifics of a hunt. On their target:

"This one's NC, Dean," (non-corporeal) "as far as I can tell. I never saw her materialize, and you don't remember any—"

"No, no PM, Sammy." (Physical Manifestation) "Just her fucking with and _inside_ my head."

Sam nodded, it had been the same for him. A voice, an invasive presence inside his mind.

"According to Dad's notes," Dean continued, gesturing to the well-worn pages, "this kind of entity, any kind of Phagus, is tricky because it's _energy_ -based, but it's like a parasite, too, so it can—"

"Hit and run—"

"Yeah. Attach, snack, and bolt."

No PM means no-kill," Sam added, (it was what they were both thinking anyway) shaking his head. "CC (capture/contain) only..." he ran his fingers through his hair, still damp and sweet-smelling from his shower. Dean caught a whiff of that familiar scent and closed his eyes, breathed it in, and was alarmed when he felt only a muted bodily reaction to the sense memory it inspired, wondering for the millionth time if his dick was _ever_ gonna work right again...

Fucking _bitch_.

Spurred on by that troubling thought, Dean slapped the top of John's worn leather journal. "There's gotta be _some_ way to gank her, Sammy. Whatever she did to me—whatever she ate—it's _done_ something to me. What if it's permanent?

Sam was still looking through Dad's notes, and didn't seem to notice or care about Dean's distress. He was a lot calmer now than his past hour of prodigious, see-saw emoting, very...dull in fact. It was like his heart was as empty and numb as Dean's dick was soft and quiet, lying flat and useless between his thighs. And _that_ was a real bitch because in the shower, hot (feeble) stream of water washing over him, Dean had started to recover bits and pieces of the last few days—

His mind had flooded with startling, vivid images and memories of he and Sam in bed together, wrapped around each other, kissing and tasting each other like they were starving and the other was their only food. He could now remember, vividly, how it felt to ( _finally_ ) touch his brother as he had wanted to for so long. How warm and hard and sleek Sam's broad back felt beneath his hands, the steel push of hard muscle under satin skin. His beautiful, beautiful brother, his at _last_.

Usually, just the thought of his brother was enough to spark a flare of fervent longing, and just breathing and being was enough to keep it lit within him. Just the thought of Sam in general, not even anything particularly sexy or erotic, and he would feel it, that familiar long-standing need. It was his normal state of being; the fact that he couldn't truly feel it at the moment, that he felt numbed all over, was alarming in itself. But he couldn't even freak out about his lack of freaking out! Because everything had been dialed down to 0.

He lifted his eyes and looked again to his brother, seated directly across for him despite the fact that Sam felt a million miles away. While Dean was busy trying to feel his dulled feelings, Sam seemed blank. Did _he_ remember what had happened between them? Was he thinking of all those scorching kisses, and hot hands, and fevered touches? Was _he_ mourning their loss as he was?

 _Making you say and do and think things that weren't...you..._ echoed like a mantra in his head, over and over. Sam said that _he_ was the one acting out of character, but that was because Sam didn't know that Dean was the freak that wanted to fuck his brother. For a long time now. Almost his whole life. He didn't know that Dean hadn't been saying, doing or thinking anything that he hadn't been saying, (not) doing, or thinking for years. If anyone was acting out of character that morning, it was Sam. _Sam_ wasn't the freak with a hard-on for his brother.

Maybe that's why he was so quiet and closed off. Still freaked out about their demon-induced tumble in the sheets. Feeling guilty and "tainted" (Sam's favorite self-abuse term) over more things that weren't his damn fault, or choice. And Dean wasn't going to mention it, or talk about it, as much as wanted to. Despite how good they'd been getting at this kind of thing, especially in the last few years as they'd both matured, he was going to keep quiet and let this whole thing die a much-needed death. That way he would go back to his usual pining and suppressed lust and longing, like the sick fuck he was...

He glanced down at his quiescent crotch.

That is, if his dick ever worked again.

"So," he began, shoving down his (muted) panic at the thought of being a eunuch the rest of his life, "CC...how the hell do you capture ener—"

"She's not free," Sam said suddenly, "not truly. So this isn't a capture, more like a...reseal."

"How you figure?" His instincts had told him the same, though he hadn't yet processed what led to that conviction.

"A being like this—there's no limit to where they can go, what they can do, unless they’re truly trapped or contained. The more distance we put between us, the weaker her grip. I could feel her getting distant, fading. Her voice, her presence wasn't so...loud. If she were truly free—"

"She'd be here now," Dean finished, "with us."

Sam was nodding. "Exactly."

"So that means that's she's trapped somewhere in..."

The both froze and looked up at each other at the same moment, eyes connecting fully and openly for the first time in hours, and that familiar spark ignited, the spark that was theirs and theirs alone. The thrill of the hunt, of closing in, ready to bag their prey, and that knowledge flashed like fire in their eyes. Anyone looking at them now would note the identical cast to their features: a sharp, crooked grin, cocksure expression, and that tell-tale gleam of hunters on the scent, and closing in. They never looked more like brothers than when they were hunting:

"The dungeon," they said in unison. _Duh_ with a capital D. That's where she was. No great mental leap to come to _that_ conclusion, because that's the last place either of them was in proximity to any nasties, of course.

"And because she has almost no mass, it'll be something small, or easy to carry—" Sam ventured.

"Like a box—it's always a box—" Dean groused.

"And heavy, and warded," Sam continued.

Of course.

"But there are like, a million boxes in the dungeon, dude."

"True, but we're also looking at a small area. A radius around the spot where I found you."

Dean was nodding, even as he added, "You sure though? Walls and other matter won't stop this bitch, she could be be as close as 10 feet or as far as 50, or 100—"

"Right." Sam shot up and reached for his laptop (Road Edition™) and brought it over to their small table. He set it down in front of Dean and bent over his shoulder, already typing, certainly not aware of how close he was to Dean, (all of a sudden) bare arms almost circling him in a hug, dark head bent beside his, a look of concentration on his face. It was just like it always was when they were hunting. Together. Close. Kicking Evil's Ass. It was perfect. All that was missing was—

"So get this..."

Ah, there it was.

"There's more than one way to bag this bitch, Dean. So we could be looking for a box, or we could be looking for...something else..."

At this point, both men were truly focused on the screen in front of them. What had caught their eye was a link to an archive they'd consulted before. Real dark web stuff that the general public was laughably ignorant of. Back when they'd been working closely with Frank Devereaux, they'd both learned a great deal about the _real_ dark web, what Frank called the Über Dark. And it had opened a whole host of resources they'd never dreamed of. The kicker was, a lot of the work of the Men of Letters prior to 1960 was there, digitized by some unknown party. (Sam was their current master archivist.)

"Check this out..." Sam muttered, tapping at the mouse pad and pointing toward a corner of the screen. "Sacrophagus, coprophagus..." (they both stopped to wince at that one, as that was literally a shit-eater) "and woah... _there's_ our girl..."

 _Motophagus,_ he read, _or Eater of Emotion. A entity that feeds on human and animal emotions, though humans are their preferred prey. Composed of a type of radiant, or electromagnetic energy, this entity is known to invade the unwitting host by penetration_ (Dean stopped here to snort) _as the primary mode of attack, with psychic connection as the secondary mode..._

Yep. That was her all right.

"Electromagnetic," Dean muttered. "Isn't that like—"

"X-rays, gamma rays, or radio waves, yeah," Sam answered, "or all light, essentially. So that narrows down the _type_ of box we're looking for, if anything...”

True.

"Yeah...wow. So like, it could be lead-lined or something, or completely made of lead." Dean guessed.

Sam nodded, pondering on that. "And pretty heavily warded, too. So what we're looking for is something small, heavy, and marked up to it's fucking ass with wards."

Dean grinned. "I love it when you fucking swear, Sammy."

Sam's jaw cracked open on a spectacular yawn. "Learned from the best, big brother."

Still smiling, unconsciously leaning back into his brother's loose embrace, Dean read the lengthy description of capture and containment techniques when Sam opened the link. This was a really gnarly fucker they were after. Anything energy-based was harder to track and trap to begin with, especially as they didn't need to possess a physical being like a demon did, and could move between hosts quickly. As pure energy, they were practically invulnerable...

Fuck. How do you contain what is essentially a wave AND a particle? This was going to be a real challenge.

Dean closed his eyes, suddenly weary, and leaned back further, seeking out his brother's solidity and warmth, unaware that as he did so, Sam was bending closer as well, moving until his roughened cheek was side by side with Dean's. 

Sam let out a long sigh and closed his eyes too, his movements tender and exquisitely gentle as he leaned forward to rub his face against Dean's.

"This is going to be hard," Sam admitted softly, still sliding his cheek against his brother's, nuzzling him.

"Just what I was thinking..." Dean replied, distracted by the pleasant scratch of Sam's stubble against his own, feeling warmth gather between his legs, the familiar surge of blood that (thank GOD) made his dick stir in his pajama pants (though it didn't do anything more give a sleepy salute, that is).

His eyes shot wide open in surprise and endless (thank _fuck_ ) gratitude, and he let out a breathy chuckle. Weak as it was, it was still _something_ , thank holy fuck.

Sam seemed to hum in reply, and as Dean turned his head slightly to the side he noted that his brother was still standing there with his eyes closed, gently nuzzling him, seemingly lost in the sensation. He looked exhausted, deep blue circles ringing his eyes, his familiar, beloved face pale and wan.

"What's so funny, Dean?" Sam asked quietly, sounding far away (probably falling asleep where he stood). "Somethin' I said?"

Dean turned to fully face his brother then, sliding his arms around Sam's shoulders and back and pulling him in close for a real hug.

Shit, _yes_. He'd missed this. So much. Everything inside of him seemed to settle together with a finality and completeness so profound he was surprised he didn't hear a faint "click" sound, like a lock closing or a bolt sliding into place.

He cupped Sam's jaw in his hand and tugged his brother's face close to his own, pressed his nose to Sam’s in an Eskimo kiss, before pulling away to press a actual kiss to the tip. God, he loved Sam's nose. It's cute slope, it's pointy tip. He drew back and moved his lips to the right, to press another soft kiss to that mole to the left his his nose.

Sam started to pull away, but it wasn't with an air of disgust, or even surprise (as he still hadn't opened his eyes) but with an affectionate kind of protest. Or at least, he thought—

Dean—can't do this," Sam started, and his heart started to plummet to the floor, because he'd been wrong, all _wrong_ , remorse surging inside of him until—

"Got research to do. Have to gank this bitch," Sam murmured, and the tight band around Dean's heart loosened, his stolen breath rushing back to his lungs in relief. "Can't do this right...now"

"Sammy—" Dean sighed, breathy and god, even he could hear the stark need in his voice, his irrepressible longing. "We can do whatever we want. _Whenever_ we want." It was almost a growl, his voice rough and lowered with the lust he was just beginning to feel again in all it's hot, thick glory. He held his brothers face between both hands, and bent forward to suck his brother's bottom lip between his teeth. “ _Whatever_ we want, Sammy..." Fucking _yes_.

But his brother was already starting to sway on his feet, and Dean clamped shut his runaway mouth before he said anything else that would damn him irredeemably, because while he was fully aware of what he was feeling and what he wanted, was Sam?

They'd both been a snack for this bitch, after all. They'd both had a dose of her manipulation, and it was possible that Sam was just reacting to her influence, had only _ever_ reacted to her influence.

But even as he stood up and gathered his brother close, began to walk him over to his bed, he realized the error in his thinking. They were not, as far as they could tell, under her influence any longer. At least, not here. Not now.

Dean had been unconscious a great deal of the way here, but in his subsequent hours of consciousness, he was well aware of her increasing absence from his head, the weird smoke-like residue in his mind fading away gradually until his thoughts became clear and clean and wholly his own. Standing here now, holding his brother in his arms, he could tell the difference. This was all him, and him alone. So if _that_ were true, couldn't the same be said about Sam?

He pressed a soft kiss to his brother's lips, his pulse increasing with the rush of gratitude he felt when Sam sleepily responded to his kiss with one of his own.

"Better get you to bed, Gigantor, before you fall over." Damn damn _damn_ , did it SUCK to be noble and selfless. Though he wanted to keep going with the kissing, nuzzling, and caressing (oh my!) and he was pretty sure (right?) that this whole thing was mutual, Sam _had_ to be exhausted. In the past two days he'd been carrying the brunt of the fight while Dean had slept through most of it.

In a few short steps, Dean had his brother standing by the side of his bed. Balancing 6 "4 of sleepy little brother on one hip while pulling back the covers was a bit of a challenge, but Dean managed it. He lowered Sam to the mattress and helped Sam swing his long legs up and over. Once he was settled, Dean tugged the blanket over his shoulder, leaning to kiss his brother on the forehead.

"Night, Sammy," he whispered, pressing another kiss there just for the hell of it. Looked like it was his turn to carry the load for a while. He would let Sam sleep while he did some more research, because while he felt tired and sore from his ordeal, he didn't need to sleep.

They needed to figure out how to capture Ms. Electromagnetic, and put her away for good.


End file.
